I wonder where my hand is in all this,
this marsh where moss floats and webs
stay put, bugs plane pond-skin unafraid
of the sleepy-eyed frog just back from the edge
and full. Here is safe and here is calm;
nothing ever happens here that wasn’t
fore-ordained, announced by ripples or
sudden silence.
It feels like death.
Happiness would be a shock.
No need.
I’ll bide my time, lay here wild,
skim this unmade life, this greenish
eden-bayou, this unfriendly not-mine
as all eventually devour this man,
whispering via mosquito-buzz:
there’s nothing you can do to stop me.
*
Quench your thirst for more poems HERE.
And in case you’re interested, BOOKS HERE.