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[from August, 1999, workshop]
These do seem like dessicated times
with ideas no bigger than thimblefuls
of leftover teachings,
admonishments (sic) from tired gods
that are no longer fearful.
Their moisture is concentrated in the
petals of a succulent,
standing among powdered rocks
and the hot wind of a passing truck.
* * * *
August 6, 1945
If an atom is to an apple
what a drop of water is to the earth,
I am not sure of its importance to me.
But when I see a child slapped for touching
things in a market stall,
I am changed forever.
If capital whispering in a bank
can multiply exponentially,
and a polio-stricken boy can reach
the levers of power,
I begin to feel I should understand.
If there are splendid ruins left
after the townspeople have disappeared,
I can begin to learn what they left behind.
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