Empty Niche

Presumably, the only creatures
That could stare directly at the sun
For any considerable time

Without harm must already be blind.
But all the naturally blind creatures
Live where there is no sun to stare at—

Caves, deep water, tunnels underground.
It’s a bit of a wonder nothing
Has ever adapted to see sun

Directly, to stare into the light
Rather than at all its reflections.
Can life just not manage to evolve

That much range of vision—not only
From the new moon’s shadows to bright snow
But from flashing waves to sun itself?

Sea floors, polar nights, boiling hot springs—
Those life can colonize, but no life
Carves a niche from the sun in its eyes.

The Immensity of Existing Things

In the land of dramatic,
Snow-capped peaks, the forested
High hill appears nondescript,

Far from a lake or a stream.
One hundred people standing
Atop each other’s shoulders

Still couldn’t see over it,
But, in its context, it’s hunched,
A green hillock in the woods.

This is the perfect beauty,
The one you could overlook.
Right now, as clouds drift over,

As an ordinary day
Being spent evading chores
Rotates in oblivion,

As it should, you can study
The ten thousand trees of it,
Dozens of species, their shades

Receding smoothly upward
From the base to silhouettes.
There’s so much repetition

Filled with so many details,
And you know that a million
Microscopes could never see

To the heart of all of it,
But here it is, unnamed hill,
And, yes, there are wildflowers,

Purplish-pink, sky-blue, and gold.
And, yes, small white butterflies.
And, yes, birdcalls, and the roars

Of trucks and motorcycles
Somewhere down a hidden road.
Sure, there are probably bears,

As well, coyotes and deer,
All the usual, for here,
But no, there are no postcards,

No social media posts,
Probably never will be,
Which is why there is this poem.

The Dying Devotion

A website commemorating Borges

On his birthday observes that he had once

Written, To fall in love is to create

A religion with a fallible god.

A lovely aphorism. In that case,

What he must have sensed is that religion

Is a subspecies of falling in love.

Oh, God, will you marry me? Will you dance

With me when I’m old, I’m ugly, I’m dead?

Oh, God, you’re the greatest I’ve ever seen.

While somewhere, the hounded gods are thinking,

Must you cement us all to pedestals?

We know the moment you see we’re human

And all yours, we’ll find ourselves abandoned.

The Corner View

Everyone who comes
To the restaurant
Wants the pleasantest

Spot. Which spot’s that spot
Depends on windows,
Or weather, or noise,

Or a customer’s
Tendency to find
Some spots cold or hot.

This seems to hold true
For all restaurants,
Haute cuisine or not,

And all customers,
Whatever money
Or morals they’ve got.

Everyone who knows
The restaurant wants
That pleasantest spot.

Regret

Out of the woods,
Side of the road,
A long, pale bird,
An egret, rose.

This just happened,
A rural fact,
Not too special.
Birds rise like that.

One hour later,
Village next door,
Over Main St.,
Same egret flew.

Not too special.
Not for a poem.
Everything lost,
When lost, wants home.

Again with the Future?

Is it out there, or is it only
Coming up always from underneath?
It feels like it’s out there, just waiting

For you, but it could be back of you,
Under you, reaching up for your feet.
There’s no doubt what’s back of you changes,

No doubt that all you have to predict
Is the pattern of prior changes.
But is it pulling you as you’re pushed?

You Know What’s Coming for You, Not What’s Coming After You

All of the people leading
Most excellent, golden lives
Some two hundred years ago

Are dead. All of the people
Struggling through most hideous
Lives two hundred years ago

Are dead. None of those who wrote
Things down that are still around
Evidenced expectations

For any world like today’s,
Any future like today.
No one saw this world coming.

No one saw your world coming.
What on Earth do you expect?