If I were the grass that covers the graves I could forget being human.

Then I will live a long and exciting life, simply by standing upright.

Why is there hurt and sorrow? Scissors, cut them off from me. 

I wish he would recognize that and stop farting on me so that at least I could respect myself as he respects himself

I could imagine the house beginning to take off too and I sat down as if to pin it to the ground

But such as it is, I have wanted it to be
Part of everything: tiny, but indispensable.

They are not, as you might suppose, modelled on maple
          leaves

That is enough for a life to do. But a poem
Is so much less—a poem is even smaller
Than a fraction of a breath, than a momentary gleam

This one
I have glimpsed
on and off for years

That I sit all night
Charting the fathomless possibilities of failure
That I am out of work of course