Manifest

by Sydney Sargis

There is a buzz,
of roots and pieces
of morning,

that calls deep
into garden ears.
It whispers,

telling the soil:
although it is dead,
things grow

here.
A holiday
of bad blood,

still breaks the ground
in the right moments,
the right beats

like the get-down,
stepped
to the right groove.

The soil cries
back, brown words,
the sound of guitar

strings,

iron taken
from the buildings.

It says no,
it does not

create life

because you tell it to,
it has always
been a portrait

of law,

a pastoral woman
of ecstasy
made from brick,
stone-cold

body.