As a bird perched
on a live wire
finds his earthworm
in the pale blue morning,
I, too, sit on my bed,
when the day is new,
and run my eyes across the margins
of text,
hunting—always hunting—
for a consolation.
I find the words of the father,
in Goethe's tale,
telling his son,
"Don't be afraid, it is only the wind."
My ribs heave and collapse.
The wind that suspends
flower petals
on the water,
or Vesuvian gusts
that billow
from the volcano?
I find the words of Emily,
my confidant and lonely friend.
She said, "Don't be afraid, it is only the Fourth of July."
Sparks flew in my chest.
The fires that light up
the night are raucous—
but the fires within
are as quiet as butane.
I find your absence tiresome,
and I grow older.
I say, "Don't be afraid, it is only time passing."
As I espalier the pear trees
and wipe sweat from my brow,
the nimble hunter,
in his feathers,
swoops down.
His is a simple sustenance.
