a single stroke
of lightning is expected

but a gentle stoke of the hand
across his scared hair
his tired wrinkles
and his rough arm
is too much too ask

you think he hates your warm, damp hand on him
and he does
and you fail again

so all he gets is derision,
noise, fat, food, nags

When you face the world alone
and it ignores you

When you lust after your dream
and it moves away even faster

When you work so hard and give much
and your results are stolen

When you create and protect
and you become ill

You become sick of it …
of everything!

And when not even God can heal you

Bring own food

Near the nature of this frail green gentleness
grows a large full nest of flesh -
hungry, hungry, hungry
bits of yellow on grey
soft, moist, warm
dying of hunger

Like yellow people
unable to be happy in the flesh
lonely, lonely, lonely

There is no eye in I
no you in woo
no way in gone
no how in show

I eye
your do
we may
love too

Show me
why you
shun we
while I