My muse is a junkie,
confused in the territory of feeling.
He wanders the plateau
above unconscious seas,
...
To The Thrush
TO THE THRUSH
In your place
I would have bones filled with air,
a beak to pull the work of hands,
a head I turn entirely
to see the whole of things.
Each season
I would shape a new home,
my wing stirring the sky—
sit until I find myself
in service of new life.
Tibetans say to build five homes
and abandon them
is how we learn to fly.
In your place
I would suffer impermanence
with irrepressible singing.