Try to praise the mutilated world,
mangled with politicians and effigies,
marvelous with its blueberries and boats
petal-plucked amid our pouting.
Praise the serrated blade that cuts
tomatoes and duct tape, praise clock
towers, bee keepers and bricklayers,
the smell of hyacinth and sea salt,
the locations memorializing our loss.
Praise that loss, the lip-biting rawness
singed from this choked singing.
Then praise the train-tracks, trinkets,
creeping vines, even the plastic planets
strung across the high school gymnasium.
Praise the dance floor ablaze with star-
spangled dresses; praise the sadnesses
scrunched into pocketbooks and cleavage,
as later, you’ll try to praise middle-aged
nostalgia, yellowed scrapbooks, photos,
bundles of de-scented love notes. Praise
needles and their delivery, skin jarred with
journey. Eggshells, antlers, and amulets, praise
them, and campfires’ soot and flames that burn
and warm. This life that turns and transforms.