To touch, to smell
The torrid heat of hell
Wherein the relief of obliteration
Could end the pain, dismiss
Those sensitivities that infuse existence
With the horrors of persistence
Gives horrid substance to demands
Addictions to the miracle
Where beauty thunders after the lightning strokes
Of revelations, out of fields of wild flowers,
Explosions of new Springtime life
Cracks through Winter’s frozen breath
To demand something of
A dead universe
Unique and wonderful.
To be born in a world of tigers,
Crickets that sing in chorus with the frogs
Under a clear night clouded with stars of promise
Of other inspirations into wild possibilities
And feel deeply something has gone wrong.
Something turned quite alien.
The song is ceasing.
And the silence has become immense.
There is no atmosphere in space
Where a lyric note might sustain.
The melodies of Earth are quite local.
Life sings to itself of small curiosities
With whiskers and pink noses,
Bright eyes to snatch nourishment
With particles of love and joy.
We recently have sent out inquisitors
To pry secrets from the dark.
Rainbows now speak of actualities,
The roar of celestial furnaces
To obliterate solidities into energies
And gravitic space to kinematics.
The symphonies of life
Do not play.
It now seems obvious
We living things intrude
Where life and death
Are oddities, commodities
That invade as alien visitors,
Most peculiar tourists on lands
With persuasions quite unresponsive
To the generations of our elations.
There are, among us, traitors to life,
Those who would destroy our vibrance, psychotics
Who employ determinations to disintegrate
The magnificence of our living eloquence,
To evaporate in atomic fury the fragilities
Of our nascent possibilities,
These allies of the dead rocks that fill our skies
Must, inside, be somehow dead, heads full stocked
With unthinking stones, implements of death
Lacking in totalities of life’s fragile hold and breadth
These seducers into the coming hell know full well
The malevolence they would release in insanity
To incinerate all vestiges of life, diplomats to oblivion
In crazed persuasions. We who live and still command
And are commanded by our love of life, nor can deny
This is our sole devotion – to be sane to claim our right