2008/after
The morning after Easter,
the neighbor mows his lawn.
Off cycle, near as I
can tell. I barely
know my own cycles,
the few that have emerged,
the ones that followed me,
in tact,
like sitting here
first thing to write.
Though the book
I was writing in then,
like all the others
before it,
126 of them –
all burned.
3/24/08