A poem for free things

By Julia Narucki

after John Wieners

This evening we will get to work—the flowers you bought last week

will grow into the ground, the brown-grassed lawns

will grow orange trees and plants who know

this side of the earth well. The turkeys the boys took down

with a bow and arrow last November

will walk the streets again, and the harshness

which paves it all will fall away, melt back

into the heat, into the twist. Twist all into familiar coils

which create themselves. Allow yourself to curve

into another piece of the spiral, cocooned

in the magic of living

and being without quite knowing.