October 2010

I’ll fly off to a fjord in Norway,
post “Oh the pain” above my doorway
if you insist on going your way,
           for this is not a duck.

That is what cowards say, and realists
who run away, shun the appeal its
rare white fur...

We were young and it was an accomplishment
to have a body. No one said this. No one
said much beyond “throw me that sky” or
“can the lake sleep over?” The lake could not.
The lake was sent home and I...

When I was two feet tall
and held the hand above,
how could I know
how far that limping bond would go,
that finger-inch of love.