Heavens crowd me, preachers press on, gurus
Take me outside and lay me in grass to feed me
(They all lay claim to me),
Hastened as monarchs in their migration
For the sweet milkweed.
I sometimes have trouble believing. Not in
Gods or divinities or betweens or sciences or dreams but
In anything; I have trouble believing. My trust
Is a wounded bird.
There are questions that gravely need answering:
We paw at them weakly, the twelve fruits
Just above and beyond, our bodies broken
By the strain of the reach.
I do not remember ever asking for anything before I came here;
Yet now arrived, I’ve asked for so much I have
No memory large enough to house it.
A malleable, contradictory thing, this existence,
This living, this collective of forms hurling through nothing at
149,600,000 kilometers a moment –
think of the mileage. If only we could all stop going
First published on Poet’s Corner July 1st, 2016