Fresno
There is a quiet growing
In that lowland
the dark shadow of the Sierras
purple in summer
and the coast violet in winter
That growing root
would anchor to
nothing rich on top
the hardpan of language
to break the surface
and continue
a door of misspelled words
and no punctuation
a child of revolution
A child of plants
the hands of working people
the eyes that sit with no one