I tell myself
there will be more light
still I don’t like it
this scent of old wood splintering
as the roof blows apart
*
my life packed
in boxes–the urge
to lose them
*
the orchards in us
not enough hands
to harvest all this ripeness
*
one heron
in great blue wings he gathers
the whole world
*
I thought I knew
who I was, then the bars
bent enough
I could slip outside of her
how many bars don’t I see?
*
sky so pink
I make of myself
an offering