The old woman who walks my street
each afternoon, head bent to the book

       in her hands, wants to not be hit
by a car. The oil slicking Galveston

       Bay wants to dress the feathers
of migrating birds in purple-black

       sheen—make them all into crows,
dead crows. And don’t I want things, too?

       My daughter to press her mouth
to my breast and release me from

       my own swelling sweetness. When
I drive my car down the pollen-sprayed

       streets, every branch gushing
at the tips, I don’t think about

       what rumbles in the engine, why
I’m so glad to burn it all up.