Broken Legs

It’s not a matter of knowing better
but what must be felt
to call life one’s own.

Risk is always there,
but not enough
to answer death’s temptation,

the mockery that deadens
what we seek
the moment before we get there.


Twenties are gone.

In years of poetry
I nibbled at life
placed the crumbs in a spectrometer
and assayed exacting rainbows
in all the ways that I could measure;
the size of the sample
was circumscribed by my thoroughness
then the machinery gave.

Today I am a glutton
of the senses, taking meadows
at a run, and I am tumbling;
as more and more details
are lost on me
it’s the specificity of storms
I now prefer.