What It Is

Because this is in long lines, I made the poem into an image; click it to bring up a larger version:

   

Here is the poem in text, with broken lines...

   

I send you these three things: a sparrow, an autumn leaf, a squirrel. You send the squirrel back.
I send you a chickadee. You tell me: We could hurt a lot of people, if we gave ourselves license.

You send me license. I send it back, with regret. You return the regret; you refuse it. I tell you:
We have rain here. It is dreary. The garden is gloomy. Even this room, with its tokens and paintings,

with its candles, its chandeliers and Buddhas from elsewhere, even this room, is dim. The cats,
the dogs, the books in their paper bindings -- we all sleep. The prayer rugs, spread out on the floor,

are dusty and thin. You tell me I walk a dangerous line. I ask if you ever believed? You refuse
to discuss it. You hold a dying man in your arms. I hold a dying man in my arms. They waste away

in our arms. I send you a poem, a wide summer sky, a hope for the future. You keep the poem.
You send me your children, but they slip away. One is drowning now, caught in the undercurrent.

I send you a book of autographs, of photographs, of words. You send me silence. I send you a thorn,
pulled from my side. I send you cinnamon, cardamon, and salt. I send you bitter lemons. The glaciers

are melting, the plains are parched. But still each day I put out seed for the birds. I save the bits
of stale bread. I wait, I watch, for something. I ask you: What is this? You tell me: It is what it is.

   

I send you these three things: a sparrow, an autumn leaf, a squirrel. You send the squirrel back.
I send you a chickadee. You tell me: We could hurt a lot of people, if we gave ourselves license.

You send me license. I send it back, with regret. You return the regret; you refuse it. I tell you:
We have rain here. It is dreary. The garden is gloomy. Even this room, with its tokens and paintings,

with its candles, its chandeliers and Buddhas from elsewhere, even this room, is dim. The cats,
the dogs, the books in their paper bindings -- we all sleep. The prayer rugs, spread out on the floor,

are dusty and thin. You tell me I walk a dangerous line. I ask if you ever believed? You refuse
to discuss it. You hold a dying man in your arms. I hold a dying man in my arms. They waste away

in our arms. I send you a poem, a wide summer sky, a hope for the future. You keep the poem.
You send me your children, but they slip away. One is drowning now, caught in the undercurrent.

I send you a book of autographs, of photographs, of words. You send me silence. I send you a thorn,
pulled from my side. I send you cinnamon, cardamon, and salt. I send you bitter lemons. The glaciers

are melting, the plains are parched. But still each day I put out seed for the birds. I save the bits
of stale bread. I wait, I watch, for something. I ask you: What is this? You tell me: It is what it is.