by Robert N. Watson
1: The Bad Joke
“I’ll just tell them,” He laughs, “that the soul is mighty,
Because it might survive a summer breeze.
‘Eternal,’ sure, if it dies eternally.”
But, taking up some leaves with a little spring
And sap still in them, soul lodges in the eaves
Like a bird who is happier when nothing human remains,
When doors stay closed, and nobody admires
Its throaty little offspring as they learn
To turn worms into flight: into feathers
That taper off to nothing, but bend the air Continue reading
Hawaii Pacific Review 