call me a tree, not a vegetable


within, atop, inside

this green-blue glass globe:


i am living; full

of living and nonliving things.


i always wondered as a child how water — so

elemental, so necessary — could be non living;


how so many living things could depend upon it.


like how all paintings are abstract.

after all, what is color?



sometimes it seems as if i am in a war with myself,

and every one else is just a spectator.


other times i am a character in a play. years later,

i still talk to some of the actors.


i am sure one or two of them think

me callous; that i never really loved them.


but, i really loved that play.



while she was waiting she began wasting away,

against all admonition and in keeping with the odds:


her body and spirit growing soft — soft enough to meld

into the curves of life’s couches;


hard enough not to care.


two cardinals flit-flirt in the dirty, leftover snow.

bread is being baked across countries, continents.


caracas, venezuela … caracas, venezuela  

sing the children learning the capitals.


out of the thicket comes the ram —

beautiful, sacrificial.


desire s t r e t c h e d

into delay:


within, atop, inside

this blue-green glass globe.


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