An American Sonnet: (Written before Katrina)

This is my morning, mine. It will not come again.

Waking to our time together, reader, I have prayed

to the blue dark I stand up in, aching,

that we meet in my small words. But I am but wounded, too,

because I am a body, silly like you,

and ran too fast on the levee with the Mississippi

below me, the river accustomed to witness human suffering.

I have twisted my left foot. Hobbling, I cross the kitchen,

pour this coffee. How would you like yours?

Sugar? Butter on your toast? I have grape jelly