Dura Mater

I carried death inside me for several days, waiting

That man had no ticket to the concert; he pressed his ear to the wall,
but no song found him

Bees were swarming; they made sleeves and a hood around me when I stood still

All winter a deep booming as black ice shifted on the lake, cracking into continents

Prayer with Torn Edges & Animals

Listen, I need one that begins with what zoologists call a
crèche
of lions, how the soft gold wings of the pride sweep to enfold those left

behind; how she nurses each
foundling as her own. See,
everywhere boys
are running from something.
What do we know? Tell me
again