We’ve lost the will to listen,
instead expressing and expressing
without end, without impression
as if we were generators and not motors,
as if beams of reality flowed
brainless and wantless
toward – what? Tomorrow?
There is no tomorrow,
today only, in a false succession
of todays. How can there be
expression, alone and only?
There must first be an emptiness,
gradually filled with the stuff of galaxies,
or more remote still, of giant gas clouds
or invisible matter, so dark.
As luck would have it
I was born who I am,
propelled into wonder
and deep disturbance,
pushed from behind
by fear and tedium,
compelled by curiosity
to delve and burrow.
Shall I say my fate
has formed me,
or have I moved through Earth
not spellbound, but spellbinding?
No use complaining, no
point in shallow grievance.
Fate works not by force
Don’t push too hard for fidelity
because looking at a photograph
you really have no idea
what it felt like to be standing
just this side of that sky,
feet in the mud, those foot-sized
bricks framing your heart.
Avoid the light in polar places
and try to catch the drip, drip, drip
of reality disappearing just off-camera,
those eyes aged into history
while no one was looking.
When you dip roses, even roses
into the frail cold of liquid nitrogen,
“J’accuse!” they shout.
“M’amuse!” we shout back,
sometimes in anguish, sometimes despair,
as they lie shattered around us.
My dear poet
If your suffering were unique
It would be useless
Call it a day
Call it whatever you like
No one owns the sunrise