This beet this exact beet bulls-eye and all huddled low in this farmer’s this exact farmer his field
this carrot this exact carrot this precise pepper over and over they chase their own ghosts home
but somehow cradling this computer in my lap this very computer I cannot see what dirt or stone yielded
this cobalt this lanthanum this cerium what wrinkled hands lifted this terbium to peace
praise, o praise praseodymium praise the hands that harvest dysprosium
Leaving For Work
We are driftwood and seaweed mingling awhile riven at dawn by the ruthless tide. We are crabs trapping prey on the bank
that is our bed and we are prey or the bed is a raft and we are castaways making what life we can in the damp heat of our struggle.
The reef around this house is sidewalk made with crushed fire coral and my feet burn with each step.
Coffee at least you say Yes I say coffee roll to trap you Good morning! I say Good morning!
You push me laugh cover your face raspberries on your bare stomach five ecstatic seconds I forget the lonesome path I’ve worn across the reef.
What are we but strangers on a raft mumbling our stories into the backs of each other’s necks at midnight?
-- Clint Buffington is a college writing teacher, blogger, musician, and farmer in Salt Lake City, UT. His poetry has appeared in Slow TrainsLiterary Journaland Jelly Bucket, and his blog, Message in a Bottle Hunter, has been featured by a variety of newspapers, as well as television and radio news programs worldwide.