“BIRDFOOT IS FOUND IN WASTE PLACES, ROADSIDES AND LAWNS.” dessa bayrock

Along the 401 grows a small angular flower
in brightest yellow, alien sturdiness, stems
as stringy as celery, blossoms glowing 
in the twilight like stick-on dollar store 
stars, which so quickly lose their light
after the light goes out, and yet— light
is light is light
. For a minute, now, the cars
all stop for construction, and these flowers
bend their heads together to hum, swaying
despite the lack of wind, turning with something
drunk up from the root of it, the route of it, 
each blossom an areola, a ventricle, clawed
like an animal’s foot, still grasping, grappling
with something in the air or in the soil, 
as if to send out twining vines to try to keep 
the people in the cars like so many seeds
rushing away in the dying light.