When happy,
she heals
with her beauty.

When angry,
she kills
with her fury.

I am standing with
five rolled-up pages
of poetry in my

hand, ready to lunge
forward and smash it
into oblivion, when

she says, Don’t ****
that fly. Can’t you
see it’s praying?

The open sky
reflected on

the winding
river’s water,

and I slowly
pass by, an

undulating,
a rippling

image for a
brief moment.

Is there life
after death?

The better
question,

Is there life
before death?

1632

So give me back to Death—
The Death I never feared
Except that it deprived of thee—
And now, by Life deprived,
In my own Grave I breathe
And estimate its size—
Its size is all that Hell can guess—
And all that Heaven was—

750

Growth of Man—like Growth of Nature—
Gravitates within—
Atmosphere, and Sun endorse it—
Bit it stir—alone—

Each—its difficult Ideal
Must achieve—Itself—
Through the solitary prowess
Of a Silent Life—

Effort—is the sole condition—
Patience of Itself—
Patience of opposing forces—
And intact Belief—

Looking on—is the Department
Of its Audience—
But Transaction—is assisted
By no Countenance—

Please break my heart
So I don't have to break yours
I'd rather feel all that pain
Than be the one to make you endure

Please break my heart
So I can leave yours intact
I'd rather be haunted
Than have to hear you react

Please break my heart
So I can live with my decision
I'd rather lose all my tears
Than have tears disrupt your vision

Please break my heart
So I'm not the one serving time
Id rather feel completely caged
Than be the one to commit this crime

Please break my heart
So I can make sure you're OK
I'd rather lose my voice
Than listen to all you might say

This request might seem odd
I ask for you to do the downing
But if we're both stuck in this storm together
I'd rather be the one drowning

Having toiled in the
garden, the young
woman sits in the
shade of an ancient
tree and sings a song
—as if serenading the
tulips and tomatoes.