in midwestern winter.

 

 

 

The vole's know better than to die

before being eaten by eagles.     Oh Yeah!

they understand the order of

death.

 

Frist you enjoy the moist meadows,

the dry uplands.

Second, you destroy crop

after crop

with each moment of pitiless

examination.

 

Then you lay, ready, in the open

flapping you're arms with that yogi

liberation of mind and will, in order

that the self may realize the

distinction

from all things human.

 

In mankind past it was

yeshiva,

a good sitting practice

for the instruction of self-love. But what if you've

walked on the moon, or wanted suicide?

Or loved someone?

Or written poetry? There's no good answer to

winter. To why the blizzard forms the snow

drifts like the sand drifts.

 

Today, on the bus, I gave my seat to a woman

thrice as young as me. And when my exit came,

my knee hurt to holy-hell. And the pain was her

fault; hers to carry home

with all her other gilts.

 

But like endangered truth;

like the Ethiopian wolf

or the ivory bill, there will be

unconfirmed sightings for a thousand years.

Some as real as reason.

 

Some fashioned out of

clay.