On leave from peeling away the walls
of my bedroom, I sit in the small
garden. Three fat rabbits circle my feet.

My mind is mine,
for now.

After a rain, embody the slugs
on the pavement,
their slow fleeing.

There is only what I have,
until that goes to the wind,
to the compost heap, to the new era.

I seek the last stilted
remains of country road in my city,
walk the hills contained, but
I want it to feel more
like an emptying hand.

I won’t forget the way I breathe,
but nothing is mine to keep.

In the puddle before my window,
a blackbird bathes its wings.