Tuesday, May 3, 2022


The split-second 
when you wake from a long, 
grisly nightmare, 

or the breath 
you take just after 
averting some disaster—

that's when you feel sure
you are lucky 
to be alive. 

But gradually, as your 
pulse slows to normal, 
you realize 

that isn't quite right;
you soon see, as if through
a transparent prism

in which many disparate
and invisible images 
meet at one point and come into focus:

how this world 
you comprehend so well
and elucidate as precious 

really was made for—
and built—
out of them.

All the drowned and the poisoned, 
all the swallowed 
and the spent;

it's the lifeless
who endure
as pure information—

as our words, and our colors, 
and our shapes,
and our numbers,

as the premise of our theories 
and the climax 
of our stories—

and, secure as you feel 
in the continuance 
you've been given, 

you know they're
as "forever" could get 

in the hands of the still-