Easter (Evening)


How delicate the world is
                      (how soon)
Thusly she knelt beside me

A voice stepping over the quickest spiders
Two worms having worked their way inside

A figurine gesturing on the worn carpet
A breeze beneath the baseboards

The windows (there are four) sweat from
What the rain has left the air

A family of cardinals invites itself
The carved milk jug full of seed

How many plates are on the floor
Frenzied propositions shamed into pieces

Lightning horizontal the night before
Crossing the sky before striking

My delicate world in pieces                        (this morning)
Nothing falls apart

 

In the Neighborhood of Horses


To run in circles for no reason
is as noble an activity as any

as is to graze all day the grass
pulling itself through the clay

in the yard that slopes the rain
toward the house when it falls

carries the seeds you scattered
into the street marbled with tar.


Brian Henry is the author of three books of poetry, most recently Graft (New Issues, 2003). He lives in Athens, GA.