Everybody is dead,
flowering quietly by a tree
through the long accelerating spring,
which distracts them, leaving others free
to open a club, whereas
at home, puzzling of an evening,
the mind launders the little desires,
and they turn out beautifully. We are also
talking to each other with no breath
which is nothing, but now
I'm afraid we've got to shelve everything
or be condemned to divide it. Let us pray.
The new world is a carpet, cut to pattern
and unrolled over the old, its freshness
as heavy as darkness
rolling over us. We believe an idea
that has been hooked but not yet landed,
unless handled adroitly,
can poison all existence
much as a prayer
far along in its missing would do.
