David A. Goodrum

While the wet field drowns and rots
seeds, I am a daffodil bulb thriving
in the ditch, a complete
life cycle stored underground.

A desiccated leaf draped
and frozen on the post,
I bare skeleton, remnants
of organs, soul. I praise

the darkness of tree trucks
that strike down power lines
as they pass through intersections
with elbows raised too high.

I offer double vision: shoplifted
recollections declared as my own
and my memories, haphazardly
evaporated, raked for crystal residues.

I decipher the dust-free shadows revealed
when heirlooms are knocked off the shelf.
My green eyes, when closed
and pressed, reveal nebula stars.

Exhausted from scratching
through needle drop on the forest floor,
I am a spotted towhee asleep in the dark
just before it wakes and starts to sing.