A Rustling Insects Make

Please don’t tell us about yourself.
We’re sure your life is meaningful,
Without us knowing about it.

We, on the other hand, are not,
Without you knowing about us
Or someone knowing about us,

Which is fine, now, at last, with us.
We lurk in scrub by your bus stop,
But we’re not waiting for your bus.

Nonymous

We’re patches of snow,
Old words in damp sand
That’s damp since we melt.

We’re patterns we make
As we disappear.
We mean for a while,

And then don’t. Desert
Drinks most of us. Sun
Lifts what’s left of us.

Pity About the Sangha

You probably understand
You need the lot of you, or
At least a whole lot of you,

To live much of a lifespan.
Completely alone, you’ll die,
Most likely quickly, despite

Dumb personal fantasies
Of great self-sufficiency.
Can’t grill roadkill without roads,

Can’t unload the furs you tanned
Without that spring rendezvous.
Even monks live off of alms,

And most hermits draw pensions.
You’re obligately social,
Just a bit, if you’re human.

It still feels good, doesn’t it?
To find some panorama
Of an empty landscape, or

Simply an abandoned home,
Even just an empty room,
To settle in, look around

And grin, thinking, if I weren’t
Such a social animal
Who had to talk to others,

And to barter with others,
To work and live with others
Just to live, I could just live.

The Valley of Many Caves

Well, anyway. Collect your gear.
We’re going to have to hike through here.

It’s funny the caves look like eyes,
Since there’s so many eyes in them.

Pay no attention to the sounds.
Forget about those poems for now.

You could never imitate them.
Pay attention to the shadows

At the corners of the cave mouths.
Don’t they look more or less the same?

Everyone in this valley’s kin.
If you hike through quickly, they blur,

But if you notice, cave by cave,
Not only are the caves distinct,

Each a differently shaped, ragged,
Natural mouth, more or less altered,

But even their shadows differ.
Every cave has its own grouping.

Neighbors appear more similar,
But you’ll sometimes see sets of eyes,

Very distinctive, watching you
From one mouth, and then not see them

Again until almost the end,
When they crop up in a stranger

Population, as if by freak
Coincidence. No telling, then.

Deal’s a Steal

You know the guy, you all know
The guy, the guy that’s selling
You something. Some of you know

You are that guy, been that guy,
Guy who’s gotta keep selling,
Even if you never thought

You’d be that guy, even if
You weren’t in any other
Way, shape, or form such a guy,

Not a guy at all, but still
There you went, selling something,
You, the guy selling something,

Could have been a subscription,
Maybe a politician,
Maybe a medication,

Maybe some fine vehicle
In which to whisk the loved ones
Off on a dream vacation,

God in some given version,
Some version of a heaven,
Some wonderful religion.

Maybe you thought you had to
Cold call to make a living.
Maybe you thought, this’ll do.

Seller, take warning. One day,
One dreary morning, you may
Wake up having forgotten

Why you’re selling and selling
Or how you became that guy,
The guy with the reflex smile,

The foot in the door, dead eyes
On some forever-far prize,
The guy who’s selling something.

A Fondness for the Lifeless

In picture after picture,
Mars looks better and better—

All the grace of Earth’s deserts,
None of the scrubby clutter.

Can we hope that there’s no life
On Mars, whether there ever

Or not was? The ruined rocks
Occasionally tumble

But never consume, tremble,
Starve, or run away in fear.

They exist. They’re there. They seem
Astonishingly peaceful

Under dusted, pinkish domes
Of the thinned and deathless air.