Quag Forest

Set sail in any
Worn dictionary
Off of someone’s shelf
Or used bookstore stack.

The more randomly
You manage to read,
The more you’ll notice
Blurrier entries.

Vocabulary
In and of itself
Is rarely moving,
More rarely fiery.

The language of love—
Confession, protest,
Witness, rage, nature—
Has to be kindled

From half-sodden twigs,
Stones, and punked words
Settling in littered
Routes of flood waters.

Here and there, marsh gas
Flares and vanishes.
The words aren’t inert,
Just mostly humus.