Friday, January 7, 2022


Instead of the me
which is bent 
in half writing,
I could come back 
as the lily 
of the field 

whose full blossom 
signals the beginning 
of the end;

the bird of the air 
who, if her children are 
to eat,

must make a leap
and leave their nest

or perhaps, the grimy rodent 
who scrounges your alley 
in search of a feast 

because his habitat 
has been upended by 
a luxury condo development.

That there would be 
no words 
to describe

my rudimentary  
grief and 
primordial anxieties

would then be 
the quandary 
of the poet on the street,

for it wouldn't impress me—
wouldn't bother me 
in the least.