What’s Not to Love

about a broken bowl,

now two half-bowls,

still ready to hold

what they can, even

if that’s nothing

What’s not to love

about weeds and weeds

and weeds that crowd

the yard, and thrive

amazingly on the same

nothing

What’s not to love

about a virus crowding

the blood, putting a doll

of itself in each cell

and sailing it away

to find fortune

in the heart

What’s not to love

about the dying heart

with its four dark rooms

full of grass and broken

china, a sheeted piano

about to play

What’s not to love

about a sonata played

by a lonely child

who would rather do

anything else,

sleep in a garden

or pull up the flowers,

who would rather be sick

What’s not to love

about reading aloud

to someone fast asleep,

about not stopping,

not even when

a bowl slides from the bed

and crashes

like a bell in water