I have not found peace,
 but I have glimpsed it
in the happy eye of a dog
 on a walk,
 trotting,
 panting in step with step
 after a mad scramble
 after a fleeting rabbit
      or chasing
       a squirrel up a tree
and at home darting beneath
 slumbering lids,
 chasing dreams.

It is cruel and embarrassing
 to have an asteroid strike my beauty;
my ecosystems are invaded and disrupted
 with the havoc and the gash.
When my volcanoes erupt,
 my people chastise my
  self-inflicted violence.
They narrow their eyes at my fickle nature;
 they question my bountifulness.
In fear, some look to the moon
 and the craters and despair,
  but I am earth;
   I am shrouded in miracle:
    patient, folding old skin within
     to be rekindled into new,
 canvasing barren landscapes with
  humble grass, and flowers, soon.

I fancy myself a fine craftsman
 with fortitude enough for a mansion,
someone who adorns, with gold filigree,
 the polished, stained pine
 and keeps each room
  appointed, waiting
  for the assessor’s gaze.
Had I known it was my home I was crafting,
 I would have squatted upon a pond and been
someone who has enough fire
 and just enough wood
  to live.

Little boy,
you just have a patch
 to hide your nakedness.

Patch after patch
 — too much needlework —
 until you are emperor.

All patched up, no place to go.

Failed essays,
 each belying
 my immaturity…

What am I saying?
This is my life I lament:
 real life… lives.

Their blood stains my hands.
Why did I try to write
 with them.

I lament spilling ink,
 but the sin is simpler:
  taking people’s lids off,
  handling their bottles.

When I can afford no clothes,
 these I have are sanctified;
  the threadbare are forgiven and loved.
  That they exist is the miracle.
  That I have any at all is God’s blessing.
When I can afford what is my wont,
 a new criteria rules the wardrobe.
Holy is rendered crumby
 and the faith that held the threads together
  is unraveled;
  a new regime overlooks the angels
   guarding tramps.