You’re still not around
And I’m still never who
I mean to be

I search but find no poem
to mend the worlds living in or out
this rolling husk of dust and bone.
I always wander-me lonelied about
wishing for some kind of somewhere home.

I search but find no poem
to mend the space between our hearts.
Beside the little library lived a hedge
on a grass where one parking lot would start
as the other ended. On this wedge
between asphalts near the shade of the bush
two baby bunnies trembled in the spring sun
And if I may and if I might make-me a wush,
I hope they grew, and prospered in lively fun
there in the world where I was and am young
and sweet — unarmed and unable my soul to defend
from God or devil, from bunny brother or friend
there in the safety of green grass in home towns
where we needn’t search — for love’s already found
and kept
safe and sound.
From the creek to the lake
from Main Street to East Lake
with parks, and bikes to roll through them.
always roaming with a hungry heart I then
I would’ve said

But no
Then I was too young to know
how to feel what I now wish to show