O Holey Jeans

I’m proud I’ve worn
through these jeans till they’re ashes
smudging my legs
beneath the new jeans.

I’m old, it means, and hard
as a bone tool
chiseling into these
space-packed fields,

time fluttering rags
around my swinging limbs,
my uprooted meals,
square corners, stocked shelves

like this fall’s little birds
singing foolish hymns
when God knows they shall
fend for themselves.

 

 

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