by Carol Casey
The path is trodden, dusty, level.
You know it will take you
where many have gone.
Step off—tangles of brambles,
sometimes with blackberries,
more often with little claws
that catch on clothes and skin;
and tortuous tree roots—
inconvenient, sacred data unearthed
—subterranean snakelets somehow
sifted into snarls for feet to catch.
There are stems that twine and burrs
that cling. There is no best place to put
your foot, no step without risk, no tread
that mightn’t wreak pandemonium
on young, hopeful shoots, meandering
centipedes, an ant colony’s front door.
On the path the damage
is already done.
Someone else broke
the sentient denizens,
made it easy to forget.
The bald convenience
draws you on
like the escalator
to the appliance department;
like the arrow
over an emergency
exit.