Ten minutes sooner, she'd be dead
The way her sister's hair curled, cupid-like
In any direction, one of them lived.
Still it took 75 years.
The probability part of statistics gave her migraines.
Should they cancel the reunion?
Once the Father dreamed of deserts.
Who promised stability anyway--
The dog ran off with the carpenter's hammer.
She knew buzzards ate statue people.
Pictures, though, showed stair steps.
Not a one of them studied architecture.
No alcohol, no melon, no legumes.
Besides breathing, believing beats all.

This is what I never hear about
in Eastern philosophy: each time
I reach a state of grace, it's
followed by a fall. Maybe that's
why artists are never saints:
they ride that state until there's
nothing left and then plunge into
the existential sea, melted wings
flailing. Is this just me? Am
I the only one not doing it right?
Maybe it's the desire to create
that topples us, that one thing
we won't let go of, that urge
deep as bone. The Goddess smiles.
Does that signal approval or
am I just on of her private jokes?