The glass is thin,
the riches brittle;
the words of old
raise the dead

The gods are excuses
for bloodshed
and the rituals of war

Where is she now,
who will wash my corpse?
Which will be her thoughts?
Will I feed the fire,
according to my will?

The bodies moving
across the Earth
are hiding-places
for the ghosts of the inferno,
out of the crucibles
of collapsing stars,
driving Volvos and Chevrolets
down the circuits of cities,
along the freeways of the mono-cultures
of Nebraska,
signing off
from the raised hands
of Dharamsala's Dalai,
letters falling
off the writing on the wall
of the unconscious

The NOW is the screeching
of a cab in Yeovil breaking hard
before a toddler
falling out into the street

The past
is an Ingmar Bergman movie theater
at Fårö,
all seats empty but one

The future
is an un-eaten loaf
of sourdough bread
and an un-sipped glass of water,
un-paid mortgages,
un-zipped zippers

First and last,
existence is a speed-freak
and a sleep-walker
hand in hand
down the unforeseen
and unpredictable;

minuscule fragments of reality
crackling in the tin roof above,
pulling and stretching
under the heat of the Midsummer sun,
as myriads of gnats dance
their pointillist galliards
on the mosquito house cover
in the garden,

the Son of Man whispering
to himself
over at the pond