in response to William Carlos Williams’ “This Is Just To Say”

In my smaller life, like sand pressed to a nail

bed, or a lost country of plum trees, this crime

might have churned me. Crucified my peace.

But love, peak outside. The titmouse shares

seed with grackles, whose iridescence spills into

puddles at the driveway’s end. One summer I

washed Mom’s Honda for three bucks while she

& Dad sat in the kitchen, debating who’d take

the dog with poor hips. Things have a way of

hurting, flying clumsily around the sun, then

landing back on the hurt. Each morning, I flinch

a hair less, smear forgiveness like marmalade on

the sin my mouth houses. Come sit. I’ve prepared

us some honeyed fruit & slow-beating hearts.