I run my life by parachute
to confuse the howler monkey
in my chest.  From below
it only looks like I’m drifting down:
it’s in fact a directed
crash that keeps the beast
docile.  What will happen
when I run into the ground
is best left unknown.  I know
what I fear, but perhaps the animal
will fall asleep rocking in the thermals;
a man can hope.  Sometimes
all he can do is hope.  Having heard
the screams inside, 
it’s in fact all I ever do.

We say
things like

my tree fell down in the storm
or
I have a growth on my finger

we settle into moan

if we change the words
some say we change the world

so
that tree honored the storm
by raising its roots to the sky
or
there is a fresh bud
on my finger 

still
the tree browns and dries
until it is removed
and
the finger stiffens
the bud is cut and tested
and the story of a garden rampant within
lousy with blooms
is told

keep talking
as the world does what it should
nothing is wrong