If Not This, Then What?
It’s not the Masses, not the torments,
not the nightmares of our longing
Not the grasslands, not the homelands,
not the roads to our belonging
One Day Closer Every Day
Sheep droop jaw and hooves split in the stumble for the hay,
eager teeth picking at the stubble and the crust
Knees buckle their hollow humble eyes stare down and absorb
what was mud is now unsullied deep red dust
The Sweet Sweet Sound
There’s a sweet sweet sound moving across the settled ground
it whispers in my ear in the morning
like a solitary breeze that whistles through the trees
and summons all the birds to cease their yawning
What Are We Made Of?
What are we made of? asks the child who cries
who just wants a toy she can play with
or to ask most politely before she dies
“is there someone out there I can stay with.”