Blair Martin

and find my ambition circling its wheels

in an unyielding forward motion.

We’re not alone on this broad road; 

the potholed mouth of my contempt 

for constant action rests, belly open, 

with teeth lining the spalled edges 

of the pavement. The balance—harmony’s 

harbor—rises up in the stilled, brittle assembly:

winter’s remains of the wildflowers

that bloomed an impossible strip between

rock and gravel. Air escapes; I linger in the daisies.