An Economy of Souls

Setting aside what you may think,

this water evaporating from their west

to precipitate over your east coast, you drink,

and bathe in what rises from their south sea

to course through your north mountain feeders.

 

Just so, as they there hunger, we grow weak;

when you have no home, he feels such cold;

she sleeps in fever, and you dream our demons.

Each wears the other's surplus clothes.

The shot and unburied bodies blot against our skin.

 

Understand: we breathe the same,

the same particles of air, as each breathes.

No distance stands between us, no difference. 

I plead for passage, you are my path past death,

to heaven, as I am yours.

I Am the Only Means of Escape

On this planet where starlight turns pink,
I capture a fleet Kelley's lily and amber rose,
a butterfly bush, burned and bright,
under the green frond-fringed bluebell sky.

Each mud or brown moss step differs
for distance against the evaporated canvas
of heat and fog in long morning air.

Soon an alien August sun
brooks low enough, bounding glare,
to toll the further tread into autumn,
hinting that least winter gray night
is warmer than weak light.

I advance on the fastening frost,
my red maples turn brilliant crimson,
sweet birches golden yellow,
sourwoods turn brick red,
all the yellow buckeyes orange.