AFTER THE FALL
 
 

After hurting in all the broken places

and after having written three poems of

madness, and after the sun has

come down low enough to come in the southern window

and warm me, and after the birds

have settled in the yard, have

fed and flown but have brought

no peace. I take the pen hand

and rub the scarred parts of the

other hand

            absentmindedly

I too

        wish to feed and fly