Touched

Fotografia de Nate Salas

More than a fistful

of stubby green fingers

pushing up through gravel.

And blades, hearts, clubs

cut fine figures too.

Each shape particular

and pushy.

Each a would-be

template,

I say.

Pick me.

*

I’m with the deranged.

Something’s very wrong.

There are masks

in offices.

Machines run the banks

and the power company.

If you aren’t my mother

or my son,

who are you?

And if you are,

why don’t you know me?

Rae Armantrout