trash picking

on the first day the snow melted
& the grass reached airplanes again
i visited the road trash. asked it 
what it was like to sleep with immunity. 
the snow this year was thicker
than the previous few. the trash
forgot it was trash beneath that blanket. 
considered what it might be like
to sit in a museum as a crown jewel
or be stolen like a glorious painting.
i was a fog land self then too. in the dark
of the failing world i was a pilot
& then a dungeon sweeper. i wept
but not like seeds. i wept like bison 
tumbling from the side of a cliff. 
hoarded every morsel of light for myself.
sucked bones free of their salt. 
i harvest the trash. tell them stories of where
their bodies came from. satin prehistory.
a chip bag opened like a heart. wrappers
for flying sugar. i keep them all in my bag
as i walk down the sweating road.
a little stream forms. trickles down the hill.
all the snow turned to blood. turned
to milk. feeds the fields. feeds the birds.
i pour the trash into the green bin 
at the edge of my yard. there are all kinds
sleep. is the dark always too much
& not enough?