Out Here, published by Jeanne Duval Editions
As if what's wrong had a beginning,
could be defined and pinned to a spot.
As if the exact moment of damage
were even possible to know,
the amount of heart it would take.
If what's wrong had a name,
would it become small enough for a fight?
Or would it swell in its own rotten luck,
thriving on any light left?
Wouldn't curses and prayers
have to come out of shards of regret?
If we have to ask, are we ready
for what happens next?
Perfect is a blue-haired blaspheme.
Against the one-legged tern on the beach
staking his claim for a windfall
of crumbs, only a squawk to protect it.
Against the first crocus, doesn't it know?
pushing its yellow mistake up through the snow.
Even the mountain lake begins
with a trickle from the snout of a glacier.
Everything's only just practicing.