Make Me, make everyone

made this branch into a tree,
little birds drip off like leaves
and they eat all the fruit,
I can see the tightness in their chest,
just badly constructed nests,
just twigs holding a fire back

made this rock into a home,
but the vines made it a grove, sweet, grove
If Spring is the father then vines are the womb
and they home the spider mites,
which bring the ladybugs
which bring the skinks
bring the sun, bring the cement
which bring the ants
and soon my rock is an ark
but it never starts raining

made this wishbone into a chicken
little eggs drip out like excrement
and they eat regurgitated speech
like bars
like bus stops
like weird trains
like the open malls
like every other human being
like conjured feelings
like lists
they'll grow into branches and sticks and stones
it's a circle of life, not mine