Ames Progressive

I.

Here heavy, this ground. To be used
or called dirt. Call the dirt

whatever it grows. If nothing,
call it dirt. I am ready to be called

what I am. This undergrowth
will spread itself perversely-reach

out with sad avarice. Be ready to be
ready to pluck me. Be ready to be

unprepared-to see me act out my
obstinacy.

These reaches are always
reaching farther-through

thinning arms.
The pattern is long and divided

but it works for one and that source
is equal in its divisions.

II.

Thinking about my home
makes me sick. I am sick

of reaching but reaching
is my vocation. And voiceless

I’ll reach homeward even if I call
this stretch beneath me my home.

I will not call it dirt; dirt
is what fills thick and heavy

my home. I must look straight up
and see how far my voice can reach

before it is derailed by a high breeze.
But oh no, look beneath my shoe-

my home is without nurse; it falls
from verve. I must call it dirt

and not my home. All I can extend
will become a summit.

The time runs low and I use my yell
to blow the steam from creations.

Each one small with undergrowth
big- so big it hurts its mother.

III.

And I know right now I want
to go right back down.

No burning, no coffin. I want
to be the ground again-

move into the air eternal.
You can call me dirt.

Look at this stem-it has seen
its last nightmare. Look at this

undergrowth and look long;
I have looked longingly for this

and my arms reach implacably.