The leaves of all I’ve read
stir as I walk, reproach
me with their dryness, beg
to be tramped
under into something good.
The leaves of all I’ve read
stir as I walk, reproach
me with their dryness, beg
to be tramped
under into something good.

A little man fried in oil
limbs in motion
stilled by the heat

Bugs unlike birds
do not flee my
innocent
port and shutter




I have troubled much
with death, have trod
with feet bigger
than all my life combined.
Stay me, Lord!
Hold me here to
pray like a tree.