Upside Down the Ancient Bole

The white-breasted nuthatch

upside down the ancient bole.

If it has no soul, neither do I.

Pencils criss-crossed on the desk,

sticks tangled on the ground.

Oblong lenticels, yellow stars.

We try to worship the divine

in our sexual partners. They s**t and sweat diurnally

and fear their deaths. But the abstract

God has also died. He lied to say he was

eternal. Earth must burn, universe grow cold.

Old field species become ornamentals.

Mosquitoes prey on us, and black flies.

The body decays, and this is what you come

to love. And the ants that carry it away.

This morning, the profusion of species

contents me. The temperate zone is warm, late May.

The posture of that bird is good to emulate.