ISSUE: Autumn 2000
My death makes her way to me
carrying green leaves.
carrying green leaves.
I hear my prayer coming
behind illness, romantic noise,
urgent telephone messages,
alchemical lab results,
like a brook weaving
through thicket.
Water knows the way,
it isn’t lost.
My teacher comes to me
by the western gates,
sound like a bell
in her eyes,
bending humorously to gather
all her tender puppies by the neck.