Wayfarer: what I call the bug
that dogs my students—weak fever,
smudge on the throat’s rosy altar.
We are a drawn bow and we are
the arrow and the target too.
I admit all the misery in this place
won’t be turned by it. Wanderer
The floor trembles. Or, the earth?
Through matted, dew-fed grass—
painstakingly sweet and stinging—
flowers press furled heads as
roots draw strength from a corpse.
A rough-legged hawk wheels south-
east; a fathom above her, pintails
speed north, thinking as a flock.
Most of us get better but, some, never.