Strange seed planted
in everything we do.
Go for a walk and sadness
clings to the cuff, sock
and shoe. You see how
it climbs the steps of the wind,
haze above a field,
getting into your head and eyes,
an allergen of grief.
You cannot sleep or breathe,
and where you want flowers
it crops up like a weed.

The taproots are deep
and just a little rain is all it needs
to sprout anew and thrive.
Small busy bee of the mind,
nose buried in the bloom of it,
desolate hive.

Green film of absence
that coats everything.
I sneeze at the public doves,
white gloves, swept oceans.
Your loss closes the throat
and makes each hour a ghost.

Brent Fisk is a writer from Bowling Green, Kentucky whose work has appeared in the Southeast Review, Prairie Schooner, Rattle, and Cincinnati Review among other places. He is looking for a publisher for his poetry collection, Midden and Harrow, and has begun work on a short story collection as well.