Peck

Watching a few small birds
In a bird-depleted
Age, how much they’re moving,

Conversing, each busy . . .
A morning chasing chores
That can’t be avoided,

Is not so different
From the life of a bird,
An ever-hungry bird,

Busily getting things
Done, not so different
From any animal,

Probably predator
Calmly watching birds work,
You’d more likely credit

As an analogy
For life in the moment,
For some enlightenment.

Over to You

Things aren’t going well
You say to yourself,
Not for you or world.

Things aren’t yet quite
Gone to hell, of course,
But it’s all struggle

Recently—declines
In autonomy,
Declines in freedom,

More of a thicket
Of brush before you,
Thorns clawing at you,

Forms and costs for you,
Thieves and collectors
Clawing at your back.

That it’s all human—
Human dictators,
Human bureaucrats,

Human collectors
And thieves at your back—
Isn’t comforting.

The more desperate
The cannibals get,
The more it suggests

The outbreak isn’t
Over yet. Once things are
Going better or

You see the bodies
Crawling through the yard,
Biting each other,

You’ll have a clearer
View of whether it’s
All over for you.

You’ll Get to the Middle at Last

While you live, you live
Your life at the front
Tip of the nodule
Pressing into dark
Dirt of what comes next,

Always at the front,
Pressing into next,
No matter what kind
Of life you’re living,
Or what next you find.

But, as you might know,
You won’t keep living
Very much longer,
Much less forever,
And could stop today.

A strange thing happens
To your life after
Life. Your life itself,
This one you’re living,
This one then ended,

Stays part of what was,
Cannot be undone,
But moves to the back.
All lives lived up front
Last in middle past.