Friday, July 5, 2019



Attention sways, can't fix

to anything.

Every morning he goes to his garden

barefoot, for the cold pleasure. Each day the beans

are taller, the wind

has flattened them against the wire

long enough for a tendril

to take hold

that the vine may climb

toward sunlight. All of it

as if by accident — as if untended: this row of lettuce,

this of beets,

a vagrant clump of weeds, a pile of cuttings. After all,

it's the ratty ends of things

he finds attractive. Little room

to cultivate a life

or a wife.

To accept one's lot may be

to become a pillar of sorrow,

he thinks, but to be alone

is salt itself.


Mark Weiss
As Luck Would Have It
Shearsman Books 2015

photo ~
patrons of husbandry