The stanzas of the
mountains—I cannot
read them they are
too smart for me, too
high.
The grass is green and
The sky is blue, but I
still live in the wreck
of what once was—in
bones and pastures.
The wind doesn’t
whisper my name, it
never has—why should
it bow to me when in one
burst it can knock me over?
You fell because of
me, were ruined because
of me and still I beat
you like the abusive
overseer.
You are not
animate like me, you
do not stare at your
rhyme and palm
trees—trying to
comprehend the why
buried under the
incorporeal X.
I am sorry, but
we will be born
again and then—
like two lovers that
never quarreled—we
can look at Him
and say, “How great
He is!”