Sure

Can a simple commensal,
One of billions near the heart,
Alive for five or six hours,

Ever feel about your pulse
As you about Earth spinning,
That it’s inevitable,

That there’s nothing more certain,
Despite some variation,
Than another beat coming?

You watch another day end,
Certain another follows,
If not for you, for others.

Nectar in a Sieve

Hope’s a prosthetic device,
But then, so are telescopes.
The difference is, hope occludes
The longer perspectives
That telescopes clarify.

There’s a certain bravery
In hobbling on without hope,
Literally without hope—
Accepting that creation
Entails its own destruction.

The short view may be anxious
And the long view seem stoic,
But that’s not the true long view
You’re taking. It’s the middle,
In which history finds you,

That odd way history has
Of rescuing the obscure,
Rediscovering the lost
Writer or artist who failed
At accolades while alive.

The telescopic long view
With its back to the sunlight
Suggests eventually
There will be no accolades
Nor anyone to give them,

Unless there’s someone hiding
Behind early galaxies,
Someone you can imagine
Observing and recording—
Oh yes, put your hope in that