Rain softens the Earth’s leathered
skin. It comes down in sheets and still
the world burns—it is so beautiful
watching it go up in flames, no one
does anything to stop it.

Last year, sink holes bloomed
like terrible tulips.
The year the ice caps melted,
I sat in my office and watched
cracks form in the plaster, as if
the air had grown roots.

In the background, the radio
occasionally whispered reminders
that investing in securities involves
the risk of loss.

Every day people
everywhere        lose everything.

The future is fragile,
an egg under a goose’s wing.

Change is marked by breakage, no matter
the good in our intentions or our efforts
to the contrary.

Revolution is a name for the act
of harnessing that which is always
pushing toward the light, breaking
the darkness to arrive.

The act of trimming the base of a cup
on the pottery wheel is a way of erasing
your fingerprints from your mistakes,
a way of speeding up time to erode
what hands have touched.

Time’s true nature is violence.
I have seen it break everything.
Any one of us would be lucky
to outlast our own teeth.

Because my cup holds my tea,
I ignore the chip on its base.

I keep the honey jar on the table
next to the roses to sweeten
the dying.