i don't just leave anything. not well enough
alone, not a question i could answer. i keep
what's mine collected. a pile i call my living
stones left out an afternoon in august, surrounded
by seedstruck severed heads of sunflowers,
pulled from anywhere they’ll grow. i know
the earth is laughing, low animals we are,
unconvinced of our relation. give me
one hundred years of peace, i’ll show you
patience, a single cigarette to see me foolish,
one more day with a dog i loved more
than self-immolation, i’ll tell you how my heart
slowed down to meet her. now she’s dust
in a box i keep by my books so when i read
i remember. everything i’ve been will be different
one day. i’m hardly more than any moment,
more than anything at all. i wanted to say
before i go.