A Poem — Sleep is an arrow — time is a bullfrog
warming its blood in the sun.
The morning flowers blur
as they stretch toward pollinators, as wings beat and tongues moisten,
hairs lengthen, sugar ignites,
muscles spasm, ink dries beneath
fingernails clipped and left for dead. We no longer chop down Christmas trees.
We no longer dress our own cattle,
our own chickens, our own children.
We’ve pulled down all the scarecrows,