After Osip Mandlestam

Too honored, too richly dark,
Loam in clover, coveted
Since stallions stampeded out

Choired chariots and wagons,
Earth’s soils of power aren’t freedom.
The plow is never freedom,

Labor’s never without tools,
And gutting rumored riches
Only proves fecundity

Depends on compost music.
The limitless has limits.
You were one of the recent,

Irregular invaders.
It’s sweet you felt joy, but dirt
Turned returned desperation.