by Josh Crummer
There is a kind of weed, a thin
silver weed invasive as those phragmites
lining the riverbank, the kind whose
stalks wave tiny red squares
above vacant tilled soil,
signaling deep rubber tracks
and a duplex built by the numbers.
They creep closer towards the field
across my childhood home –
the last westward field where,
at its edge, pinewood breakers
halt city lights from drowning our stars.
Josh Crummer is a poet based out of mid-Michigan. He’s survived COVID, 500-year floods, and several economic crashes.