My name is Shang – or Winter.
So this is peace.
You think, and magically . . . a strawberry appears!

Horny or Harm seems the ordinary home.
Or Having seen the orchard and hives,
I’m satisfied I’ve picked the dark pocket

Dear Father I erred

I left my body to look for you

(its image nestles in the center of a wide valley
in perfect isolation wild as Eden)

You see, even suffering decays, what is left
is the dust.
The limit is my breathing body.

Red, burgundy, blue,
this is my roof, I belong here.
Bread crumbs, jugs, paper and
the wind lifting all of this to the sea.

There is a whole forest of tree machines in central Maine that have been programmed to turn on me. I’m certain of it. When I am absolutely silent, I can hear them plotting. It sounds like a gentle wind.