SONG
Involuntary birth, involuntary death—
I’ll never think my way out of this,
so go indwelling, like the stone
dropped in a mile of water by nothing.Sinking through the ten thousand things,
racing my anger down to the wire,
the last few lines where I give thanks
for the company—for the work.November, a few pears still burning
on the highest branches.
FOR POETRY