before i was born
people looked at each other
with a longing more
than one person could
deserve. and one can
not bear what one does
not deserve. so the
people could not bear
each other at all.
the moon, i hear, would
be full in summer a
month at a time. this
was before cities.
the grass was different
colors, it took the
moonlight and turned it
back on itself and
the people could not
bear it, not at all.
a man might write a
poem on the ground
with a stick, hoping
the right woman might
pass by before the
rain came and read the
dusty language of
desperation. death
was so familiar
you could see it, like
a bird riding the
wind out to sea, a
speck in the face of
the full moon and then
gone. people could not
bear it, not at all.
