We did all we were supposed to do, and then some,
is this the only life we are meant to live,
the only song we sing,
the only dance,
the only haiku,
the only romp through snowdrift or piles of fallen leaf?

How often do we wake to tattoo gardens of distemper,
rabies and shots across the stomach?
That was last year.
Now we wake to lilac bushes and a frenzy of honeybees,
bright wood carvings in the last oaks to the west.

The phlegm of hope, a flicker
bird resting on the windowsill, dust
and fog, a longing for sleep,
one wing lopsided by a near accident last night.

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