At some point I quit trying to do good
and tried only not to do damage.
For every candle I’d lit,
every flower I’d opened,
there lay something dead behind me.
There is killing in all things,
I’d heard them say, especially love,
so I was terrified.
Out some window then
slipped my hope: dirty captive bird
taking back the perfect sky.
And all these years
this cage kept just for her.
With her the candles and blossoms
that covered the smell of the dead.
I was lighter then, or heavier.
How she flies.