The sun. The sun is up.
In my garden the chives are up
out of the warming earth, eight inches tall
already in their cluster of slender greenness.
In Minnesota more snow.
In Madison, more unpermitted singing.
In Milwaukee, in suburban St. Francis,
the Overpass Light Brigade holds up
WATER = LIFE.
In Chicago students are up
and walk out on standardized testing.
On the downside,
in Bangladesh, a garment factory collapses
and people sewing clothes for Walmart
are crushed in the rubble.
In Senegal, used clothing from the US is up,
is now the second largest industry,
putting small tailors out of business.
In my workshop, one of the poets wishes
godspeed to a dying uncle who abused
many of her cousins, his nieces. This uncle,
a ninety-one year old doctor, not a healer.
On the English coast, a balmy mist.
In English, parts of speech
drop their boundaries.
In Spanish, la lucha continua.
I Thought I Could Not Write another Poem
Then Robert and I Were Paired at the Community Workshop
Ice Not snow
Snow is soft Snow
On this block only the police
and the clocks move
It is their car
It is your arms on the hood
your body across the grill
your legs spread apart
your feet uneasy
on the ground
up for you in court
Ice is slick Trips you up
Ice is cold hard