There must be a point to a line
break, like hanging up the phone
on an angry mother in law or hanging on,
far too long in silence, as absent lovers do.
It must bear the stride of an agile deer, paused,
legs outstretched, the flesh of it lingered
above the fenceline. There are clouds
and blue ambivalence.
There must be, in all these brief endeavors,
a circuitous route to redemption, a perfection, say,
brambled, the cosmic twist that in the end of things
— even lightning reeks of lamentation.
Sweet and Bitter Greens 