It’s hard to build much with it.
It grows in the marsh.
It can be cut for a spear.
It’s no good for roads.
One can make a roof of it.
The stain of a crime.
Back and forth of verse and prose.
A bent reed. A stick
On which one can lean. A pipe
Through which wind can sing.
A wedge to cut me in clay.
It can beat ribs sore.
A myth can be made of it,
A kind of sad tale
For why folks grow lost and sad.
The curse of a god
Set out as a way to be
Marked in the way gods
Were birthed to fence out the bruised
Who said no to truth.
