The root is not to be grasped with
a tamped heart set on rasping
tootle-de-hoots on a tight schedule.
The root is now all grumped up, swearing
grandfather cusses to childhood sores:
middle class, anxiety prone and salacious.
The root is a figure of peach, antiquated,
tactfully tiresome yet peppy with the
preacher’s predilection for argument.
The root is further from the root; it
goes deeper than the root and pretends
to know more than the root ever knew.
The root is class, critique, conscious;
it creates waves while roaring, thinking
out its actions anticipating predestination.