Lesser

Lesser


Nothing to press, not a one
to press a field of treated trees. Twitching like a woman
afraid to twitch, I’ve seen enough
of lesser wigs, those bee-stung faces

afoot in the field. A man in rags (no rage)
hands me a poster: in high blue heels
a corpse. Possibly, it was just that—
chatting with a group. The pressure of liveliness,
an overkill.