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“What's Not to Love
about a broken bowl,
now two half-bowls,
still ready to hold
what they can, even
if that’s nothing
What’s not to love
about weeds and weeds
and weeds that crowd
the yard, and thrive
amazingly on the same
nothing
What’s not to love
about a virus crowding
the blood, putting a doll
of itself in each cell
and sailing it away
to find fortune
in the heart
What’s not to love
about the dying heart
with its four dark rooms
full of grass and broken
china, a sheeted piano
about to play
What’s not to love
about a sonata played
by a lonely child
who would rather do
anything else,
sleep in a garden
or pull up the flowers,
who would rather be sick
What’s not to love
about reading aloud
to someone fast asleep,
about not stopping,
not even when
a bowl slides from the bed
and crashes
like a bell in water”
―
about a broken bowl,
now two half-bowls,
still ready to hold
what they can, even
if that’s nothing
What’s not to love
about weeds and weeds
and weeds that crowd
the yard, and thrive
amazingly on the same
nothing
What’s not to love
about a virus crowding
the blood, putting a doll
of itself in each cell
and sailing it away
to find fortune
in the heart
What’s not to love
about the dying heart
with its four dark rooms
full of grass and broken
china, a sheeted piano
about to play
What’s not to love
about a sonata played
by a lonely child
who would rather do
anything else,
sleep in a garden
or pull up the flowers,
who would rather be sick
What’s not to love
about reading aloud
to someone fast asleep,
about not stopping,
not even when
a bowl slides from the bed
and crashes
like a bell in water”
―
