a word for heroes and tragedies,
life-breadths hanging by the thread of
destiny’s blade, epic history
and the plight of demi-gods.
but also a word for mice, 2 maybe
3 days old, still blind to the world’s beauty,
eyes squeezed shut
even though they don’t know, they
can’t know i won’t let them know
that they will never see a sunrise, a single
blade of grass.
each death a grain of sand
weighing against me in a mirrored hourglass
on the nights when i cannot sleep;
each death a wave that breaks,
and is gone.


On a day two days after Palm Sunday,

there were no births, and,


no deaths.

Instead I sat at my cold aluminum desk

and threw out words like pennies,

watched through grudged windows

the skeletons of trees endure.