at which to pitch

the plea? How bad

would something

have to be?

It’s hard,

coming from a planet

where if we needed something

we had it.

AGREEMENT

The satisfactions

of agreement are

immediate as sugar—

a melting of the

granular, a syrup

that lingers, shared

not singular.

Many prefer it.

THE OLD COSMOLOGISTS

When their cosmology

grows soft and spongy

and unreal, the

old cosmologists

get touchy. They feel

they should have

held it off, they should

have known about it

in advance, they

should have stretched

the interstellar cloth

or sown a row of stars

along a rift just to the left

of Mars or guessed

about a pin-sized patch

of purple gas or grafted

comets tail-to-tail,

and thus or otherwise

suppressed the drift;

as if change were not

something that just happens

at certain stages

but a private test failed

moment by moment

as age is.

THE PASS

Even in climes

without snow

one cannot go

forward sometimes.

Things test you.

You are part of

the Donners or

part of the rescue:

a muleteer in

earflaps; a

formerly hearty

Midwestern farmer

perhaps. Both

parties trapped

within sight

of the pass.

THE PIECES THAT FALL TO EARTH

One could

almost wish

they wouldn’t;

they are so

far apart,

so random.

One cannot

wait, cannot

abandon waiting.

The three or

four occasions

of their landing

never fade.

Should there

be more, there

will never be

enough to make

a pattern

that can equal

the commanding

way they matter.

DON’T LOOK BACK

This is not

a problem

for the neckless.

Fish cannot

recklessly

swivel their heads

to check

on their fry;

no one expects

this. They are

torpedoes of

disinterest,

compact capsules

that rely

on the odds

for survival,

unfollowed by

the exact and modest

number of goslings

the S-necked

goose is—

who if she

looks back

acknowledges losses

and if she does not

also loses.

IT’S ALWAYS DARKEST JUST BEFORE THE DAWN

But how dark

is darkest?

Does it get

jet—or tar—

black; does it

glint and increase

in hardness

or turn viscous?

Are there stages

of darkness

and chips

to match against

its increments,

holding them

up to our blindness,

estimating when

we’ll have the

night behind us?

BLUNT

If we could love

the blunt

and not

the point

we would

almost constantly

have what we want.

What is the

blunt of this

I would ask you

our conversation

weeding up

like the Sargasso.

DIAMONDS

Is the snail

sharpened

by crawling

over diamonds?

Is her foot

hardened

so it can’t

carry her?

No. Snails

make mucus.

Even the

most precious

barriers

to lettuce

are useless.

HERRING

A thousand

tiny silver

thoughtlets

play in the mind,

untarnished

as herring.

They shutter

like blinds,

then sliver,

then utterly

vanish.

Is it unkind

to hope

some will

eat others;

is it uncaring?

THE MUSEUM OF FALSE STARTS

It is incredibly

beautiful but

unfinished—

actually hardly

more than imagined.

There are the beginnings