100) Panama

Fruit thumps in the pointless
grass, has no hand in itself.
Complaint's a sort of orchard.
A summer flower plucked black's
another tool.

If only I couldn't
understand, I'd imagine
some sarcastic new Christ and say
something someone would say.

*

Pain is okay--
it's the practical
that murders.
Birdsongs now

in the trash-
thicketed blackout.
I want something to not
do with my hands.

---Graham Foust