Crimes
Dear Disturber
For a bried time
the way you came
of plants and vegetables:
of the Peace,
I accuse you of breaking
and entering my life---
a quiet room
whose windows you shattered
with light,
where there was space enough
for only one to sleep
and room for neither pain
nor promises.
I harbored you here,
both of us
fugitives of sorts,
though what I flee from
is harder to describe---
the way the sea looks when the wind
has lashed it black and blue,
the damage that happiness
can cause in its blink
tramplings. You left
in a month of vagrant leaves,
the whole of winter shuffling
into sight, its white
hospital gown just visible
beyond the emptying trees.
Now a pot of yellow chrysanthemums
burns een at dusk
as if the sun were going down
at the horizon of my sill.
I choose again a life
the safety of peas in their pods;
the dark places in earth
where sweet potatoes lie
imitating stones; chrysanthemums.
Hear how the animals call
through the night,
each cry a riddle
whose answer you made simple:
there are poachers
everywhere.