Green with Wanting

Here is a child      wanting a pool back
wanting all the poetry books at once      She is
not sick

She is not fever-rich

She juts out into the world    so her hand
any may safely explode
as a nature

She can’t buy all the poetry books

She has a different kind of money

She is a strider          Admire her

So she goes with all the trees     All hold their arms
high        open to the freezing cold matters
in the thing called a woods

She but      no longer a girl

She walks between them     All the insane openness
of the arms                         A cold bitter

A martini of cold
With an olive of colder

It is a madness of the trees

God, the earth is a mattress

and nothing more

 

 

 

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Bear Letter

As I am a baited bear
no longer being baited,
none of the moral aphorisms
apply to me.

I will not extrapolate from my days
to your days,
which may be harder
or easier.

Who knows.

I seek berries.
I eat deer.

What do you do?

If I punch myself in the arm
with something that looks like self-satisfaction,
kindly note it is a paw.

I feel very fortunate to have retired from the fangs of dogs.

It is a good thing live here in a quiet forest.

I’d hate to find myself accidentally in your city
and have a mauled human
under my body

and then when the police arrived in fury and guns

have absolutely no way to explain myself

to your human satisfaction.

You will have to just shoot me.

Truth, it’s probably better than being captured

by someone like you.