Questions of Beauty
I am the rain,
not to be judged.
I am the broken tree
beyond questions
of beauty.
If you find me
under your shoe
let me be.
My composition
balances
my decay.
I am a desert
arrayed with skull
and cactus flower.
◆ ◆ ◆ ◆ ◆
To the Body
Can you sing your poverty
the way you suffered plenty,
dumb in your prime,
impervious to praise?
Empires are overrun
while you, sustained
by an ailing junta
of heart and brain,
still rule our cells,
still stand
against the nightward-
turning sky,
one of the numberless
makeshift towers
from which the universe
perceives itself.