Green Flower in Snow

What should you be but just what you’ve been,
What with the whole wide world for your sins?

They picked you to heal their own sick blood.
You were bright, clear to see, green on white.

They picked you and picked you, so that all
The you left was the dull part, near grey,

The low leaves that looked the most like rocks,
Hard to spot. The dull part thrived, still thrives,

But now you aren’t what you were, your green
Old self. You’ve lost most of what you’ve been,

Save for the loss. Now that’s what you’ve been,
Shaped to fit the land. You. Low, grey stem.

Fugue Lives

To get out, to flee and still live.
To not be where or what you were
But not lose your sense that you are.
To take a new name. To be it.

To head up the slope to thick woods.
To be past the reach of the law
Or the spies of the law, to be
Rich past all need for debts or banks.

To not hurt. To not have to move.
To not have to feel forced to choose
Harm and guilt to keep your own peace.
In a word, to be words. To sleep.