Thursday, September 15, 2022


A touch blander, perhaps, 
than the Christians' slender 
gilded crosses, 

but I tend to feel best 
that mix of agony 
and grandeur 

when I'm biting my lip 
and passing beneath 

the yellowing branches 
of a primeval tulip poplar

in the barely-there 
of midwestern autumn—

feeling so small, 
and yet heavy 
for my size, 

and always so 
piecemeal-divided by 

the fractal shadows cast 
across my body
on the underside 

of this tall, 
stoic being that's so 
willing to die—

at least 
for a little while—

in order to outlive 
and outgrow 
us all.