It was a lean-to one could live in 
so long as it never rained. It was 

a grain of salt close up, looking 
like a crystal, growing from itself 

like an outcrop of land. It was a sail 
opened in a storm. A memory lost. 

A coin tossed at the wrong time, 
declaring heads or tails. It had the air 

of an aristocrat or the stench of a skunk. 
No matter who bred it, it couldn’t be fair. 

It wasn’t a buoy. It kept no one up. 
It had the metallic notice of a gong. 

It was a thoroughbred raced too soon, 
or a setting moon, or a button lost or 

undone. It only had one track and 
when it sped up it was sure to derail. 

It had a smile for a satellite 
or a smirk for a son. Everyone 

thought they recognized its face, 
but, one by one, they were wrong.

A fairy came out of the woods,
A creature bewitchingly fair;
A dress would have stolen the beauty
Half-hid by the locks of her hair.

She said that not far from the wilds,
Where the rill gives itself to the brook,
She had seen what for years I was searching
In cavern and crevice and nook.

She led me the way to a spring,
Where to drink meant awakening love;
A draught of the cool, magic waters
Brought pleasure untasted above.

Expectant, I closed on her steps,
We came to the brook and the rill,
But the spring was not there nor elsewhere,
And the woodland was silent and still.

Then sternly, not looking, I asked,
“Where, O fairy, is that which I seek?”
There was nothing but silence for answer,
No fairy was there then to speak.

It probably started
in a whisper, a murmur,
a low tone hardly caught by the papers,
a sticker, a poster,
a brick wall with slogans in fresh, black paint
because
it probably started with a shove,
some bluster, a gunshot,
crushed fingers, it probably started
with a speech that caught the right ears
on an otherwise happy day,
yellow flowers in a wooden stand on the sidewalk,
red apples, radio
trying hard to smooth out the mood,
kid hurrying past, thinking,
God, he’s shouting
about me,
pulls his hat low,
it probably started
with another man
drunk on swagger,
it probably started
with a small crowd
coaxing exciting lies,
it probably started
with a neighborhood’s head bowed
as the drone grows each day
(though they’ll claim
it came
in a quick, monstrous surprise).

When tears wash tears and soul upon soul leaps,
    When clasped in arms of anguish and of pain,
When love beneath the feet of passion creeps,
    Ah me, what do we gain?

When we our rosy bower to demons lease,
    When Life’s most tender strains by shrieks are slain,
When strife invades our quietude and peace,
    Ah me, what do we gain?

When we allow the herbs of hate to sprout,
    When weeds of jealousy the lily stain,
When pearls of faith are crushed by stones of doubt,
    Ah me, what do we gain?

When night creeps on us in the light of day,
    When we nepenthes of good cheer disdain,
When on the throne of courage sits dismay,
    Ah me, what do we gain?

When sweetness, goodness, kindness all have died,
    When naught but broken, bleeding hearts remain,
When rough- shod o’er our better self we ride,
    Ah me, what do we gain?