“From: Moss” by Michael Rerick

From: Moss

highway roses prevent the flower’s disappearance
nods repeat sincere diner dates out of meaning

the same people pass by different windows
headlines continue to capture falling maple leaves
refreshed water, ducks, and children intersect at the pond
white grass and mowing blade noise multiplies

beech tree crook folds wait for discovery
beauty ticks away in an afternoon drizzle
loss and love cycles tangle in autumn winds

a fresh blue bell cliché is picked and hung in a car
humor is drained each morning from a coffee mug

October sounds walk pine pine pine into faces
a moss tear dropped on porch rot thrives
a rice or noodle meal steams another kitchen
doors renew their slamming capacities

afternoon human glass sounds wake the crows


a telephone transformer
of grey bulbs and black wire
curls pressed out power
lines and mends
wound strings stretched
to strum
exhausted in a billing cycle
that grids the sky
with maples
plucked by men
in cherry pickers
conservative in gunmetal
the color scale
flowers stationary
at its pole top
to connect
yellow morning lights


our collective agrees to award a Pulitzer
and grants tenure and underpays adjuncts
to celebrated words of conceited celebrity
at a pace that outdoes assassination
and chemical and water waste onslaughts
we misunderstand as secret artistic habit
and shocked how easy homemade bread is
and scramble to put one thing in another place
because we moan rearrangement tactics
concrete popsicles are prized over Truth
because of popsicle abundance and sales
the soldiers, larva, and queen relax in goo
with particularly themed and curated anthologies
our ground freezes and the grass dies
so we imitate chefs and their foul greatness
or gather and gather to show our intelligence
or worth with a high lecturer honorarium
we like other ants show our culture
and are indignant to lesser authenticities
because our muffin crumbs often reward effort
with clear indications of what is not shared
in blueberry or other special baked interests


chairs are left to mulch
and moss comes back
on the overpass
a fig tree remains green
in street light street sign
shadow paste across
plastic Halloween lawns
nailed to a wet telephone pole
a filthy cartoon washcloth
points to the belly of a sparrow
at human scale architecture
trapped in an overhang sense
with burnt night leaves


rain beads collect
convex landscapes
of silver faces
in temporary storage
on wet windows


Earthquakes potentially crack
But rain rifts our neighborhood
When the convention is to bend
Like a reed on minimum wage
Water over misunderstandings
The continuous stress breaks
So landscape incongruities root
And beautiful disaster prevails
As we congregate in the rubble
Work patches on the demolished
Though we want foundation rot
And surprising disappointment
All our plastic bottles begin to leak
Over berry stains on our clothes
Like timed friction hold frames
That quickly collapse around us
In a wildfire of spreading grass

Photo on 7-20-16 at 2.07 PM

Michael Rerick lives and teaches in Portland, OR. His work recently appears or is forthcoming at Angel City ReviewHorse Less ReviewPotluck MagazineSwitchbackS/Word, and Waccamaw. He is also the author of In Ways Impossible to FoldmorefromThe Kingdom of BlizzardsThe Switch Yards, and X-Ray.



Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s