The crust, quiet and tender, but I finally hear the breaking this
creates. So much of what happens
is routine. The raven crackles and shrieks because
it imagines a hole in the nest.
The crust, quiet and tender, but I finally hear the breaking this
creates. So much of what happens
is routine. The raven crackles and shrieks because
it imagines a hole in the nest.
He startles and flies—
but for a moment, a pool of warmth,
a pool of stillnesss, for a moment
Overnight,
new toadstools
shoulder through
sodden grass
the way sorrows
emerge,
Praise the cicadas, the hydrangeas blown
against the bathroom window; praise
the wind-chimes, the whisper-press
of pages in my hand; the poem,
however it descends.
I didn’t ask the caterpillar
with its antennae tangled
criss-cross in a cobweb
if it wanted to be healed,