for seven springs the harrowing bloom
of inclination set upon my breast called a scavenger
magpie
women working, the front of a restaurant
in a tiny rural town told me
magpies
formed a bridge over the milky way
of white bellies and scapulars; short and rounded
magpies
over which two lovers met
on the seventh day of the seventh month I expect
magpies to emerge full flight from my rib cage

I have started saying "I don't know"
when they ask on what page it's on
Although I know, I have begun not answering
question and letting silence take to the air
but I know the response,  mentors
friends and life have so kindly given to me
the letter with the answers, I don't want to pretend
to be dull-witted--I do know
it's all blood and scrapes and great heaps of
love to know, not haughtiness --

the silence of a library in summer
is pleasing
one pencil's drop is as deep
as an ocean
its sound ebbing towards my shore
of attention
from one end of the room to other the shadow
of people gone
only a custodian and his keys celebrate
this momentous occasion

genocide. on a strip. because the rest of was taken years ago-
fear & anger dominate the bombs. where is your clear mind?
people are people. violence is a crime. where is your compassion?

I am trying to walk this way
north, towards the northern star
but i do not care to arrive at the northern star
I simply look for what is in that direction

I weep with my little pains huddled
like toddlers around me.  
They were so sweet
in their patience with me, waiting
until I was ready. Now I hold them,
their tiny faces giddy with excitement, as I abandon
the ground of functionality for a wilderness
quiet at their side