History is how many years ago?
when I was five, sure
older seems to others old.
Who decides if I lived through history?
if we are presently historic
in some proportions, and
Who decides when?
a moth my cat can’t catch
now history
a 4-year-old secluded
Kennedy died
a 4-year-old rushed to hospital
Beirut again Beirut
To think there is control
or logic in it
An accident, a bureaucratic
mixup,
Broken leg still limping
an historic fall.

This garden
where tulips
swayed in the wind
Those lips
with no rain
lasted, and now
new buds, perhaps a daisy
lilacs in bloom
and the corner bush
in a white cloak
like a bride–he’d say that
each spring
about another garden
The climbers starting to climb
and the ground vines
choking the ground,
columbine’s saffron
looking down.

May 31, 2014 it was a Saturday

Bureaucracy of Garden

To have walked over
ground continuously
Trod, they used to muse
which makes it sound heavy
akin to Trudge, cousin to
Drudge or a more active
Drudgery.
And I think for me gardening
is an aristocratic English affair
all sight, no sound
peaked interest, nothing profound
Just flowers there
by someone else’s keeping.

I am an angel of history
who takes
a step sideways
to avert my doom

sees calamities in peripheral vision

wonders about luck and chance.

I missed the stars tonight, there are still stars but I’m not out there.

I used to take an interest, and full moons too. How it sways in the night sky.

Somewhere it changed. Some, some shifted so I’d rather not look. Betray the alone now.