The Letter O
Love Poem for Edward Snowden
Silver inchoate to green,
our ears not evolved or tuned for it yet.
Those leaves that are water, for instance; or as at the sperm bank,
goldfish swimming suggestively beside the nurse in their bowl, while the nurse’s Y2K pin
swims aimlessly in her drawer.
Bird’s Nest root
Fit Root Plant
To your purr Snowden the rest are theremin.
Minus the 1 and I, vertical time civilly wakes.
Their shell game to your sailing stone–
Things that grow in the dark and cannot be picked:
(though wild malus is picked and ripens there,
and the moon’s ambling root sets the shutter speed of the sun).