Commuting Home Past a Burial Ceremony

So many things can go wrong
For anyone in one life,
Why believe anyone’s failed?

Yes, the more usual text
Of the sermon tends to stress
Counting no one a success,

Since everyone gets a turn
At some point to dance with death,
But why count any life lost

The fault of whoever lost
Life or the person lived it?
The mourners crowd on the grass,

A knot mostly gray and black,
Some more or less cheerful, some
Looking genuinely sad.

Sufficient things had gone wrong
For the one they’re burying
That the body stopped working.

That it lived was its failure
And its success. One body
Could never determine this.

Got the Whole World in His Hands

Tyrants are exemplary
Of what anyone might do
Given opportunity.

Clearly, collecting the world
Matters greatly to humans.
For a wandering species,

It’s remarkable how strong
This urge is for collection,
This Noah’s Ark obsession.

Tyrants love zoos and gardens,
From the Bronze Age to today,
And while some were emperors,

The habit crops up with kings,
Mob bosses, entrepreneurs,
Chieftains, and celebrities.

Near Namibia’s border
With Angola, a villa
For one wealthy local man

Had its own combination
Of arboretum and zoo
Arranged around swimming pools,

Miniature replica
Of ancient hanging gardens,
Of the gardens of Huangdi,

Echoing larger efforts
Of rulers, lords, and big shots—
Michael Jackson, Escobar,

Ivanishvili—the list
Is almost endless, endless
Actually, in the sense

That the list is still growing.
What’s the point of collecting
These artificial kingdoms,

These planets in bounded parks
Maintained by massive effort,
Mostly gone in a lifespan?

One or two of everything,
The disparate juxtaposed
To bridge the missing middles,

A fantasy enacted
As elaborate display
Over and over again—

There are many other ways
To display your wealth and power—
Many ways, many taken.

But each ark suggests
Some lust for solipsism,
Whole world you wrap yourself in.

Being

It’s not fast
Or slow—it’s
Both. It ropes

Like taffy
Pulled, and it
Explodes slow-

Mo. You can’t
Dodge, grasp it,
Get it off.

The Unacknowledged Alarms of the World

If a poem could lie in wait
Instead of only lying,
If a poem could rise at night
And wake you from your dream sleep
With accurate predictions
And not mere prophesying,
We could speak with conviction,

We could forecast for ourselves,
And plan our own behaviors,
And feel that we were worthwhile,
And feel ourselves grow braver.
But we lie as you left us,
Waiting, not in wait. We try
Hard to wake you. But you sleep.

The Words Feel Left Behind

Every window
Has a graveyard
Just below it.
A child’s might be

For a well-loved
Kitten. Yours might
Be memories
Of a well-loved

You. Adelaide
Swore at her dead.
The brown road runs
Between the pines

Still. Wait for us.
We haven’t left
Our windows yet.
Every word will.