The bees would not miss us if the entire neighborhood went missing. / The reverse isn’t true. The mind goes to self // as the self comes to mind. / The mind tells the self, I made you, / and the self asks, who gave you that idea?
I drew a house / I drew a house with a tire swing / I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass /
I drew a house with a tire swing and deep green grass and a little pond
Grief is the Easter Moon lily that blooms in / an empty room. It is not the canyon / glowing, like the inside of a persimmon torn / open by thumbs, but all of the hours, and / only ever those hours, waiting for that glow.