How embarrassing to admit that we have no plan.
But the fact is we are desolate of vision.
But what can we expect when thousands
Of our oldest and wisest are dying by attrition around the clock
Only to be replaced by countless new souls
Who need to be welcomed, fed
And loved and taught to speak
One of 7.000 languages (not counting the languages of nature).
The landfill on the horizon dominates the threshold to infinity.
After that, just sand and more real estate
Being surveyed for solar farms and cities of the future
That will be addicted to the milk of the sun.
But the Pope is breathing on his own again.
And remember when Gaza was just Gaza
In the atlas of our self-loathing?
And remember when a bird was just a bird
Instead of an endangered half-mythic thing?
Oh, and can anyone tell me what our children are dreaming?
Who of us remember our own dreams,
Dreams of what we might secretly want or need to remember!
Or does our fading memory signify
That our memories are receding for reasons of their own?
And can we even use any of those words that win the puzzles
That keep us busy while a madman is renaming
The gulfs and rivers and countries of the world?
And using war for demolition?
And planes are landing upside down
And whether we survive and crawl out
Onto the tarmac to live another day
Depends on some random person's prayer
Who happened to be talking to God when the fickle wind shifted?
On a positive note,
I would love for you to meet our neighbor three doors down
Whose hair is blue, and her little dog
Who is always with her in the stroller
With a bow in her bangs,
Who, when she (the dog) looks at me
Somehow sees straight through me,
Through my birth name and my family name,
Right through all my complexes and
Even through the next hundred poems that I will write
Heading for the elevator.
(Article changed on Mar 11, 2025 at 12:13 PM EDT)
