I miss the big navels when they are not in season,
but almost any orange will do when I really want to see God.
She was my own mother’s voice
when mom was reaching
as deep inside as she could
for the sound of a wing on
a tender prayer
and strength is a pantomime of courage
played for the lights of a burned out marquee
before an audience eroding one by one—
some decomposing where they sit, the rest
just rising to forget they ever came.
I smile proudly at the bug,
cradle it in a sheet of paper
and set it gently down
on the ground outside.
“And how are you doing?” I want to say that I am not doing. I want
to say that I am existing; instead, I just exist. Like things just happen.
I exist the way you remember to breathe – out of habit.
Art alone
compensates. Statues
of bearded psychotic warriors, not even legend.
He killed Abel
because it seemed
the only answer
to all that went unquestioned.