Do I turn out the light?
What remains for me
before the clock strikes hard?
¿Apago la luz?
¿Qué me queda antes de que
el reloj marque duro?
Cada noche me subo a mi tejado solitario
para maravillarme de lo no dicho,
y sé que también estás mirando hacia arriba, que la
leche fresca que vierte de la oscuridad
también te apacigua a ti.
I have lingered too long on the intricacies of bark and root,
of trees as leap into the inverted bowl of a sky I cannot lick,
named comets and coined mythologies while the masters
of commerce discussed business in the other room.
It is late-April 2003 and I’m well enough to bathe. Mom draws
the bath, peels off clothes and bandages. A month of sweat and blood
disappears in eddies of soap and steam. Civilians cower in fear—
Humankind sets the price of the earth—
What is the value of things buried deep within?
I would extract a fortune out of dust,
I would mine the sky for diamonds and the soil for moons,
I am a wealthy god who cares about the poor.
I’ve built them shopping malls to worship me,
paid for stained-glass windows to let in a little light
filtered in my image, crafted search engines to ask
for things I am too wise to give away:
I confess to undemocratic meditations:
If Bin Laden had sought instead
to save the world,
what would he have hijacked?
The dishwasher hums and the laundry’s put away.
Clean sheets, clean cutlery. A puddle of dust
on the hardwood, but the dog is on my lap
and a drowsy rain perfumes the house.
A farmer starved to death waiting for the perfect time to reap /
a perfect harvest. He was a kind man, a poet. /
The community rallied, brought fresh bread, cakes,…
One can almost forget the future
in the glow of a Pacific sunset,
forget how quickly placid waves turn brutal,
that waters are stubborn as facts, immune to prayer