No answers

Invisible clouds of methane rise
from the thawing tundra,
and from bubbles
percolating in the northern sea

And from god-forsaken
tank-farms of grief.
With my special diet,
these high-tech glasses

And in spite of my best
attempts at denial,
I can clearly see
the specter of extinction

Afoot in the land.
I took a walk
before the reception
and I spotted a homeless man

At the intersection
that I recognized.
Padre! Father!
An eagle dropped

Upon an octopus
trapped in a net. But the
sunset is so beautiful and
somewhere the northern lights

That I have never seen
coruscate Joni Mitchell’s little green.
When I was little
someone gave me

A floating stone.
I played with it in the bathtub,
watching it float around.
From where I sit

I can see a wedding dress
in a shop window.
I can’t take my eyes off it.
It is numinous.

Three days a week
I play a pedal organ
in an old hall
for a man who cannot walk

Or speak, but he can hear
as well as a moth.
I think he is a savant.
When he laughs

He laughs with abandon.
His eyes tear and flow
and grow very wide.
I pull out all the stops

And play enormous chords:
cello flute oboe violin tympani,
pedaling furiously
swelling the sound

To fill all the corners
and crevasses of the grieving
world. When I stop
he is staring at me in wonder.

As the waves of sound
subside, he looks sad
and slumps. Then I
wheel him out of the hall.
Photo credit: Rodger_Evans at
Attribution-NoDerivs License