Unsigned

a new poem

Unsigned 

Late May,

when heavy green 
begins to lean in—

green churning 
a deeper green—

and bees, fevered, 
needle haze

pulled tight
like a sheet

of clear plastic
across the field.

When it dissipates
I see the seams—

the dandelions 
that dot 

the sloped sides 
of the canal;

the ragged lilacs
my vision blurs;

the graffiti fading 
beneath the bridge.

What would it mean 
to have no need 

to speak it— 
to leave no mark

that signs a thing seen.
Late May, 

the heavy green
leaning in

to spill over.