What’s the purpose, now,
of crying, once you’ve cried
already, he stated, as if he’d
by no means thought, or been advised—
and maybe he hadn’t—
Write down one thing
that doesn’t need to matter,
that also issues,
to you. Although I didn’t
understand it then, these certainly
had been the times. Random
corners, round one among which,
on that individual day,
a colony of bees, certain
by intuition, swarmed low
to the bottom, in order
to not abandon the wounded
queen, attempting to rise,
not rising, from the strip of
grime the place nothing had
ever thrived, actually, besides
in clumps the grass right here
and there that we used to name
cowboy grass, I suppose for its
toughness: cussed,
nearly, steadfast, although that’s
a phrase I realized early, every
time the exhausting approach, to not use
too simply.
This poem has been excerpted from the gathering You Are Right here, edited by Ada Limón.
