Awaiting the Alien

From some moments, you can’t help hoping
For it, God, the adventure of it,
To be confronted by something new,

So new you have no comprehension
What kind of phenomenon this is
You find yourself experiencing,

So new the most frantic rummaging
In memory comes up with nothing
Or sadly inappropriate names,

The way invasive Europeans
Fumbled with American fauna
Amidst the unexpected weather,

The way the primary indigenes,
Whoever were the first to stumble
On each human-free ecosystem,

Had to confront what somehow didn’t
Quite kill all of them, the way you would
Feel face to unknown and alien.

The Role of the Immersed in Light

Anywhere you can bear it,
This paradoxical sun,
The beauty of which no one

Can sustain, not directly,
But without which the heart sinks
Hopelessly, back in its cave,

Without which, all other light
Slowly becomes oppressive,
This gold sun, gods’ ancestor,

You immerse yourself in it,
In green waves, in dusty rooms,
Between walls of skyscrapers,

In the courtyards of lizards
Who need it more than you do.

The Yankee Swap

Appealing and stirring
As much of it remains,
Doesn’t Whitman’s Preface

In 1855
Seem a little bit nuts,
A little bit unhinged,

One of those pure products
Of America, like
Any manifesto

Written by a loner
With no political
Or avant-garde movement

To advocate, only
His wild-eyed, confident
Self? It’s the Yankee swap—

You get the creative
Freedom at the expense
Of the revolution.

May Never X Again

A silly thought pattern
But always potentially true—
Whatever you’re doing

Could be the last time you do.
Of course, you’re more likely to cling
To the things that feel good—

May never see this scene again,
May never taste such food again,
May never feel loved in bed again.

But it must be just as true
For the dark, unhappy scenes,
The things that seem heaped on you—

You may never be this sad again,
Never be this poor, this scared again.
You may be gone before then.

Committee at a Distance

It’s a surprisingly pleasant
And soothing routine, a meeting
At distance on screens, the motions

Submitted, the polls going up,
Read, click, and submit, vote counted.
That it’s a harmonious group

Helps—most votes are unanimous.
But it’s the rhythm of thing,
Swinging along, in a warm room

At home, not under office lights,
Thinking here we are functioning,
Working smoothly, getting things done.

It’s almost like licking our fur,
Being sure to clean out our paws.

A Part of the World

You there. This body you think you have.
You don’t. It’s not your body. It’s not
Anyone’s body—doesn’t belong

To any patriarch, any state,
Any god. Doesn’t belong to you.
This body you call yours remains part

Of the world, and you inhabit it
And perform some strange small part in it,
Which makes you, too, a part of its world.