You Don't Know What's Good
Yes, when I watch the ocean march
in stately rows to crash in obeisance at our feet,
each phalanx sighing back in a long salaam,
I don’t feel my soul pull to the Oversoul,
but wonder how the ingenuity of one animal
could poison dead a thing so big. I know
what’s bad. My worn stubs for teeth preclude
boardwalk taffy, even if its sugary cloy
didn’t summon weary visions of yearning
and disgrace. There is no grand voice
we can use for this. Mountain sized bergs
are sliding off continents of ice,
bobbing boats where tourists in baseball caps
and jackets that break wind snap pictures
on their phones. None of this was on a list
of things to see before I die. I fear
not death so much as dying, and hope to do it
in my sleep. Before the ruby throat
weaving back and forth before the vine trumpet
blossom teasing in the breeze has gone.
Before the few people who don’t mistake
tattoos for personalities haven’t vanished
from the earth. And before blue morning light
tasting like dew has been sold to tyrants
who already own the water of the poor.
I don’t even feel my soul anymore, it dozes
to awaken, perchance, with a start. Yes,
it’s good to die asleep, and the scientists,
bless their hearts, made us pills for it.
in stately rows to crash in obeisance at our feet,
each phalanx sighing back in a long salaam,
I don’t feel my soul pull to the Oversoul,
but wonder how the ingenuity of one animal
could poison dead a thing so big. I know
what’s bad. My worn stubs for teeth preclude
boardwalk taffy, even if its sugary cloy
didn’t summon weary visions of yearning
and disgrace. There is no grand voice
we can use for this. Mountain sized bergs
are sliding off continents of ice,
bobbing boats where tourists in baseball caps
and jackets that break wind snap pictures
on their phones. None of this was on a list
of things to see before I die. I fear
not death so much as dying, and hope to do it
in my sleep. Before the ruby throat
weaving back and forth before the vine trumpet
blossom teasing in the breeze has gone.
Before the few people who don’t mistake
tattoos for personalities haven’t vanished
from the earth. And before blue morning light
tasting like dew has been sold to tyrants
who already own the water of the poor.
I don’t even feel my soul anymore, it dozes
to awaken, perchance, with a start. Yes,
it’s good to die asleep, and the scientists,
bless their hearts, made us pills for it.
