Absorbing

Puddles slowly go to mud.

Too much / abundance, wrote Moore.

Is that what it is? Too much,

Too many people, too much?

Over-abundance can kill,

Sicken with surfeit, for sure.

The desert after too much

Downpour is a waste of mud.

Wealth makes people happier

Until it doesn’t. Balance

Is such a big deal to life,

And yet life’s always hungry.

Birds that survived the flash floods,

Sing out tonight for more life.

Turn-Outs Never Have the Best Views

Grammarians, ancient
And modern, scrutinize
Each tattered scrap for clues

How best to reconstruct
What’s left of the markings.
Their creativity

Yields a variety
Of translations. You could
Rip to shreds your own works

And pay someone to guess
The missing passages,
See if that improves them,

But how could anyone
Care like grammarians
Investing vocations

In the truly ancient?
Once, someone wrote something
Some part of which survives.

What Is It Like to Be a Poem?

Curt, but it looms large
When seen through the lens,
The chatter hornworm,

Common name only,
Never learned Latin,
Never got labeled,

No type specimen.
Look it in the eyes.
They do the talking.

They say, we’re in here.
You can’t be certain,
But it’s true. We twist

To stare back at you.
Seed pearls of language.
We know you. We do.