Desperate for fame, old heroes ride into battle with mace, saber, spear, whatever arms they have. In myth, magic matters, but in our current deadly tale, at last we have a sword pulled from stone. Our lungs still inhale dreadful air and life wears a tissue-thin carapace, but we need no rider on a white…

I too pretend that my comfortis no part of any war–yet the globe shiverswhen a small birdlands on a twig,one living part of a treewith roots spread deep,knotted into the soil. Sowhen a wren alights, warroars somewhere in the world.There’s no side to a sphere;it has one skin. Spider websshiver when rain or windstirs the…

Making the bed,I pull a corner of the blanketonly to find a white silk rose in the closet and another by the rocking chair. The cat has picked flowers.I tuck them back in their basketand think of linden trees in bloom, about cats, and about small bees.Is this the last line of a storysolid as…

Right lobe and lefthold what a hand cannot grasp,corpus callosum a corridor,the entry hall of words.Spider webs of neurons crowdthe closed closet of the skull,and I am rebuilt by sleep until shift workers in umber uniforms murmur and I blink at dawn.My mind a crew in yellowdance me awake, not to worship or to scheme,…

On a light pole a redtailwatches for fresh meat,not in the nearby fieldbut on the city pavement,dismisses rank roadkill–a racoon on the center line–leaves that to crows and magpies,black-tie dinner guests squabblingover the buffet before them.I bid the hawk good morningand brake to let the carrion crewescape my deadly approach.And I too feast on the…