As in the sound of rain returning.
       As in humming-
birds, their soft bird songs as they
      lodge a nest
between redwoods. As in nursery
      rhymes &
a child's wide eyes. As in prayers
      to no god
in particular, slow & heartfelt, like
      the Oh lord
preceding cum. As in cornfields &
      a horde of mice.
I do not want a life more remarkable
      than it is drab.
If ever in doubt, give me blue, give
       me the recklessness
of water spilled on a tile. How it is
      present &
at once gone. As in a feet slipping.
       As in the slipping,
the noun in motion, the body lifted,
      then slammed.
As in the 60s & the first moon man.
       As in newsfeeds
scrubbed clean of blood. As in each
      school kid
returning, not their school bags nor
      their shoes,
not the sorry, sorry, sorry. As in a
      body before
the tumor. As in the tumor, benign,
      melting  
back into the breasts tender soil. As in
       my father
without his rage. As in a childhood,
      soft & bloodless,
all my dead friends dug fresh from
       their tombs.
What if I'm fate's holy doe— made both
       for pasture
as well as for meat. What if all I ask
       for is to be
the hand around the tool, the one in control,
       loosening,
loosening, asking the animal to flee into
       where my blade cannot.