Xiphoid Afternoon

The sun falls like an angel’s sword,
As if there were angels, as if
They swung swords. Hot, in any case,

Hot enough for you. Your species
Have been to the late, lamented
Ice Age as maggots on a corpse—

Death that meant nothing to you but
More food, death that you had nothing
To do with in the event but

You took as opportunity,
Or your ancestors did, to breed
And lay the eggs of languages,

And here we are, words helping you
To breach, deflesh, and dessicate
The bones of that fast-thawing corpse.

Will it never come back, the ice?
No, nothing comes back as it was,
And next you’ll go, and what comes next

You shouldn’t bet will care for swords
Nor angels, gods, or metaphors.
We’ll be your bones, then. Too dry bones.

The Mulberry and the Mystery Tree Below the Watchman at Dawn

That you can think of nothing at all,
Can think in ciphers at all,
Can think of zero at all,
Think of null sets at all,

And find them all useful, predictive,
Valuably manipulative—

That, now, should cause you wonder,
That should give you pause.