FOUR POEMS
Window But that’s not, he said to me, to cut me off, the limitof empathy. There was, I thought, a breeze somewhere nearby, but I didn’tknow. I faced the wall, and after all was indoors. This not speaking for months—that’sa choice you made. You didn’t have to. I had become aware of glass, which I knew movedso slow, though someone still had called it solid. Empathy doesn’t havean endpoint. It’s something you decide, you decide where to stop. A little lessof the light this morning harbored in the palm outside the window. Whichalready I knew I’d use for an image— icon of a haven, or destruction, whenit waves. Don’t act like this isn’t a choice. Sonnet written walking under the mess some magnolia made Even with my nose up here at six foot something I knowThe color brown is sweet:…