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
undefended;
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.
