Why must you move with grace
into my meadow, gentleness
in the lift of your head,
in your questioning eyes?
I wish you pawed the ground,
snarled,
scared me
with a wild-beast stare.
Then, when a gun blast
causes you to crumple,
grow rigid
like some statue in the park,
I can see past your marbled eyes.
Like Midas gloating over gold,
I’ll count your points.
