I COULD SPEND A YEAR

I could spend a year

writing five

words,

and they

would look

and sound strange.

They wouldn’t be English

or Spanish or German

or Duwamish.

They

would

be tired

of my effort.

They would be traced

in blood and sweat

and shit.

It

would be interesting

to read

them.

Four

seasons

in five words.

Why

five?

Why

not simply

now, and alive?