just to you,
lukewarm reader,
even though we
seldom understand
one another—
let this poem stand
as a prayer's
humble opposite:
no hyperbolic paean
to what's hopeless-
ly beyond us;
just a few mealy words
to keep you screwed
to the earth—
its fermented treasure
troves of dirt,
under-ripe
apple groves
and honey bee
stingers.
May its aim curve
away from complexities
like god,
and instead, curl in tight
toward a charm
that can't be lost,
toward all of those
guiltless and selfsame
and clean
quarks and
electrons, which spin
and invent us.
