Every night I die.
Every day I am reborn.


This wasn’t my plan—

but I stopped being able to shrink 

from its truth.


Why is it that the trees 

that surround me do not take in my fear?


They have no use for it—bending to the will of the wind.

Their roots know that fear is the opposite of shelter.

The trees are not self-hating, 

and have no magazines

telling them how to seem

or catalogues telling them what to want.


The self that dies dissolves

into the dreamless sleep

darkness its master.


I have learned to surrender.


After all,

it’s not my doing or undoing—

The passage of the planets, 

and their posses of playthings.


What is up to me is

already quite enough—

all five senses

keeping track of their inward knowledge,

unfolding to



And the sixth?


the free agent organ.

the heart.

The brain has no business there.


And the heart —is it my doing or undoing?

Or is it simply my friend—when I remember.


I remember

in the morning,

when I am reborn,

and have just had my first sip of dew

and am stretching my fresh, fine pair

of wings.


These wings may get clipped today—

by fear.

The air has not yet determined it.


Or they may 

lead me to flight—

but only by keeping my wandering eye


on my heart.