Crimes.
Dear disturber of the peace, I accuse you
of breaking and entering my life, a quiet room whose
windows you shattered with light, where there was space
enough for only one to sleep and room for neither pain
nor promises.
For a brief time, I harbored you here,
both of us fugitives of sorts.
Though what I flee from is harder to describe.
The way the sea looks when the wind has lashed
it black and blue, the damage that happiness
can cause in its blind trampling.
You left the way you came in a month of vagrant leaves.
The whole of winter shuffling into sight.
It's white hospital gown just visible beyond the emptying
trees.
Now a pot of yellow chrysanthemums
burns, even at dusk, as if the sun were going down
at the horizon of my sill.
I choose again a life of plants and vegetables,
the safety of peas in their pods,
the dark places in earth where sweet potatoes lie,
imitating stones.
Chrysanthemums.
Hear how the animals call through the night, each cry
a riddle, whose answer you made simple.
There are poachers everywhere.