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| Today, ten thousand people will die |
| and their small replacements will bring joy |
| and this will make sense to someone |
| removed from any sense of loss. |
| I, too, will die a little and carry on, |
| doing some paperwork, driving myself |
| home. The sky is simply overcast, |
| nothing is any less than it was |
| yesterday or the day before. In short, |
| there's no reason or every reason |
| why I'm choosing to think of this now. |
| The short-lived holiness |
| true lovers know, making them unaccountable |
| except to spirit and themselves--suddenly |
| I want to be that insufferable and selfish, |
| that sharpened and tuned. |
| I'm going to think of what it means |
| to be an animal crossing a highway, |
| to be a human without a useful prayer |
| setting off on one of those journeys |
| we humans take. I don't expect anything |
| to change. I just want to be filled up |
| a little more with what exists, |
| tipped toward the laughter which understands |
| I'm nothing and all there is. |
| By evening, the promised storm |
| will arrive. A few in small boats |
| will be taken by surprise. |
| There will be survivors, and even they will die. |
