Cassandra’s Cousin

There was one prophet who was safe
From his own prophecy. He saw
A sorrow, a grave disaster

Visited upon not millions
But billions of human beings,
Trillions of other lives as well,

Yet he foresaw this disaster
Would narrowly spare the planet
Without any action at all—

He suffered seeing the vision,
But it was a horror that would be
Averted, and none but him know.

And so he did not have to preach,
Nor lead himself to martyrdom.
In his later years he wondered

Sometimes, late at night by the fire,
Why it had been given to him
To know the horror and to know

How close to all life it would come—
What could be the use of silence
In a prophet? By not preaching,

Had he somehow caused things to swerve?
He had no followers, of course.
Even God didn’t talk to him.

Interview a Dream Directly

Dreams often insist
On the opposite—
Ordinary dreams,

That is, including
The kind found in naps
From which you’re startled

Awake—in the dream,
For instance, someone
Was there in the room

Arguing with you,
And then you started
Awake to empty,

Peaceful afternoon—
The opposite. No
Person, no quarrel.

Why do dreams do that?
Go find another
And ask it point blank.

How Would You Rate Your Pain?

You know your body best, said the nurse,

And you knew he meant, You are the one

Who knows that body better than us,

But you felt as if the stress landed

Between your and best, as in, You know

Your body better than anything else—

Of what you know, you know your body

The best—and it felt like being told,

Of the vastness of the universe,

You’ve never gotten beyond your room,

The cell that is also the cellie

As well as you, prisoners inside,

The only body you’ll ever be,

But also just one in the sequence

Of ever-changing bodies you’ve been,

Which are also the sole animal

And the territory it’s explored,

And, if it’s all of that, this body

You pretend is in your possession,

How can you possibly know it best

Of all of that, silly solipsist?

What you’ve really known, really noticed,

Is how unlike most other bodies

Is this body with which you’re in league,

Somehow. That’s why it lands hard, the sense

Of being extremely limited,

With nothing but secondhand access

To the embodiments of the rest

Of the beings that can be questioned

And addressed, You know your body best.

In the Isolation of the Sky

Feral pigeons were made

By humans, reads the lede,

Reminding, good or bad,

No one resists hubris—

Humans, humans did this.

The planet is dying

Of humans—it isn’t.

The planet can be saved

By humans—no, it can’t.

Responsibility

Is social currency

Traded in exchanges

As detached from under-

Lying fundamentals

As any stock bubble.

Pop! What made the pigeons

Feral were accidents

Of pigeon-ness combined

With new environments,

Contingent accidents

Of humanness. Take charge,

Now, though belatedly,

Of how you want pigeons

To be, but keep in mind,

Beyond your intentions

Will rise consequences

As feral as pigeons,

Dusky, extended wings.