The Arrival
It is winter but
the poets are still coming.
I once lived in a
town where there were no poets
or children. The trees
were made of salt. When the wind
shook, nothing happened
but daylight. There were no hands
since there was nothing to take.
For a Coming Extinction
What if we are birds?
Does that mean we also stand
on wires, tenderly, weightless.
Are we in front of
or behind the red-tailed hawk?
The last bird must watch us die.
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