Sometimes Poems Spray From Onions

Sometimes poems spray from the bleeding
purple onions I chop for dinner.

Sometimes they wriggle between my dirty socks
and towels as I sort black from green.

Arrogant young poems loll in the sun, care less
if we ever hear them, sloppy and delicious in their salty skins.

Some poems are gathered beneath dry leaves,
morels to beg from dense cold clay.

Poems may fall unnoticed, the last snow flurry
shaken loose from the empty cereal box of winter.

Smoldering poems drift in the punk scent of the
Bradford Pear springing as births from autumn’s rut.

And tonight I hear thick-coated poems
lightly crunching on bones in the woods.