Let’s Try This Again

The earth takes a turn
For the earth. For once,
Waking up doesn’t

Find you thinking first
Of the estimates
Of human lives done,

Human lives begun
During that one turn.
This morning, you think

Of the survivors,
All those who started
The turn still breathing

And came around
By the iron clock,
Also still breathing.

That’s quite a gang, quite
A lot of you did
And have done and will

Have done, ten thousand,
Twenty thousand, some
Thirty thousand times,

Your daily cohort,
Everyone spinning,
All ancients of days.

To Write Paradise

Ah, the little monk
Sits, thinking of poems

One to be the last,
The enso poem,

The final gesture.
He knows it won’t be.

It’s silly, really.
As the body fails,

The awareness goes—
Sometimes long before.

The honest last poem?
A twitch and a sigh

No one notices
Far more likely than

A calligraphic
Circle of panache.

Ah, the little monk
Sits, thinking, pretend

The one you like best’s
The one you did last.

Belief in a Just World

Mostly? Researchers point out
That if you believe the world

Is just, then it just makes sense
You’d be more conservative,

Or would at least trust it is
The way it ought to be, but

Trust in a just world rarely,
If ever, is summative.

You may feel most of it’s just
Or that it bends to justice,

But you still reserve the right
To carve it up, case by case—

Just if you get to call it,
Unjust any other way.

Days That Turn at the Middle

Turn everywhere all the time,
Sure, but the feel of a day
Which often settles at dawn

Sometimes turns in the middle,
High noon, sudden exhaustion,
That sort of thing. If the feel

Flips exactly at exact
Center, it’s definitely
Going to assert itself

In long term memory more
Than the usual sine waves
Raising and lowering moods.

Broken bones are good for that,
As is sudden wealth in fact.

Sunanswerable

Think of your created
As a remote collection
Of phenomena under

Your observation
Blurred by distance
Or medication—

How well can you sense it?
Well enough to work with it,
Evaluate shortcomings,

Progress? Can the simple
Keep a handle on enough
Of the blurring ambition?

The sun has found your window,
For you now, as for you
Always, the sign of peace,

Tranquility, relief
From wisdom, from questions.
Don’t answer them.

Empty Handed

Asleep awake
Awake asleep
The words refer
To a cross state

Not where you can
Disintegrate
Not where you can
Reintegrate

More of a half
A steady blend
Where you act out
What was a dream

And dream actions
You take waking
A kind of dance
With empty hands

Purposeful Rounding

The beautiful thing, and it can’t
Be overstated, is how well the world
Is when there is no pain. Give

Everything else for that, and you’ll have
Done yourself a favor, even if
You slip or slip under and vanish.

Why do you need to know all
Is not well, is dysfunctional
With your world if your world

Is not full, is emptied, of suffering?
Let your temporary awareness,
Temporary anyway, hover

And flutter over a handsome planet
In which there is no pain for you.
No wonder deities said, This is good.