Auspicious in all elements and all the young poets gleaned,
The nation on the ramp, morning again.
Test cases on an infinity of infinities,
Each a category unto itself and
All, an impossibility.

Voices near and distant rub as a cricket rubs leg and hind quarters
For the chirp of thousands on a hillside night,
Where the grass says play and the birds eye the fish in the river,
Heavy with spawn, salmon eggs by the hundreds of thousands,
Cells by the millions, why can’t we all just get along?

Intrinsic and inimitable, the crow flies,
The condor rises on its pillar of warm air,
The great rocks half buried in sand crash up the surf of endless waves
Counting every bubble on the limitless verge that is a limit –
The hard scrabble of continents surrounded by oceans
That freeze at the poles to ice thousands of feet thick and somewhere up
Or down there, it is snowing.

The wind is blowing flakes and chips sideways
To drift as on a glacier of ice shelf, itself moving.
The world of stuff moves but greater in extent are the empty spaces,
Three hundred degrees below zero – flirting with absolute zero and stasis
To last how long without a visitor but the light beams of the dark and distant view.

Feeling around in yourself for the reflection of such things,
The turning world emotes your sadness and hurt.
Alone in a crowd. Poor and hungry at harvest time,
Perhaps we ask for the wrong things?
Maybe our ideas and community matter to each other
So we go to work with chisels, talk and other tools,
Like prisons we think might work for ideas, like schools, poems,
Song and meme.
Film and telescope, microscope,
Publication and science.

Everything has its part we suppose.
Seven billion people and everyone has a right to mend up their family and
Reach the future in a manner of speaking, now.
What are the odds for such probability
As the subatomic particles, never quite where we expect them,
With partners of lit up neon and the city street on the walk home.

The lonely hearts and the elderly remind each other that there should be a match
And coincidence of spray in the surf and tepid tea in the cup.
The light we know simply to the eye is the mind of long and loose crafting
Where parents talk on their pillows in bed.

The unfulfilled drift of deeper time,
Her handsome profile, diminutive paw and delicate wing,
Sure as a feather folded in.
For people, the folded in word, light, memory and sustenance.
The horror of politics writ large, is not summed up, laid out or displayed.
Only negation preserves all that gets beyond our limited notions of what is,
Beyond the presumptions of how we might feel and
Renders the person to place,
Sure as the cup on the table but by logic, not sure at all,
As we are on an unsettled journey,
A familiar paradox or predicament holding hands with a gloved figure,
A shrouded meme of sky dark knowledge.

The pilfered, exploded remains unexpectedly come together
Unique as your identity,
As me showing up in each of my scenes
Just as I am there for each of my doctor appointments, except for the ones I miss.
I may be sleeping or somewhere else counting up the ways,
The twists and turns of whether you love me
Or turn some screw that knows the limits of living and the place below the grass,
The sunflower field of Elysium passing.