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“You know, son, life is a business.”

Now I know why
owners think we are ants
like numbers
like percentages.
Take a long look
from the thirty-fourth floor
down at the street.

What do you see?
about their daily breadcrumbs.

If you were an owner,
locked in an airless cell
as your yellow window stared
at flat black streets,
and every day,
you saw those ants
wouldn’t you believe that too?

feburary night

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“Shake out carols!
Solitary here, the night’s carols!”
—Walt Whitman Out of the Cradle Endlessly Rocking

Begin round,
green and speckled brown.
Twist in amber veins.
Weave in lucent skeins, bore
toward the dark middle, that hide
spinning wights, tangled nights.
In sleep.
Wrapped, bodies gathered,
tingling slow,
time groans, cells divide.
Within the bud,
under night mud,
something yawns,
thrusts tendril fingers up from beneath
and listens, feeling the breeze breathe.


When you found me, I was heavy,
face pressed against dry leaves.

You lifted me in your arms
smashed your lips against my lips.

You breathed for me,
filled me with breath.

Deep inside, the light stirred—
the sun began to throb.

Fingers deepened and uncurled
and pale shoots filled with light.

Now leaves pulse in the green wind
and flowers thrust with want.