What if 


everything is metaphor
for love, and all indices 
point to our chests where a fragile
bird holds a song in its throat. 
What if every fourth word 
of the song is red, or cave, 
or honey, or poem, but they all mean
hunger, except red which is the sound
of something lost at sea. 
And poem, which is something 
we carve the world with.
What if metaphors are sorrow,
and you stand on your small lawn  
holding your sorrow. For many days 
no one comes, then someone does, and you drop
your sorrow into his palm, and he holds it
like a splinter. His fingers close, 
around your sliver of sorrow he calls
a blessing, then the wind says something
that sounds, to both of you, like forgiveness.





Homing
for Law

What can we do but love
ourselves out of darkness.
Out of the past shrouded
in smoke. Have mercy
on our one, imperfect heart.
Ah, heart, you homing
pigeon, ink mark on bronze,
bless you, your relentless
returning. The whole time
while I grieved, and grieved
and grieved, like thunder, 
far off, you called to me,
so quietly, I almost missed you
for the weeping.