I am not bothered by what I have in common
with revised laws that mask our language
as some sleepy instinct, such as bunching up our eyes
when we’re startled. I’m not at all bothered
by my ancestors who may’ve or may not’ve been murdered
by Genghis Khan or any of his allies, if he had any.
This universe wants something that is in me
but not what I have in me to give.
Let me tell you: I haven’t whispered right in years.
I’m curious just how many business trips
I could do in a row before I say, enough with training,
give me my carapace, and then tell me
who splashed me from my sleep.
I am finding no anthem long enough. I’m finding this poem
dried out, like some ancient mailbox
dug up and passed around a dinner party like fake tartar.
And wait until I tend to you. Wait until the day I tell you
I love you and mean it. And the sky, for instance, looks marvelous,
poisoned, in fact, greenish, and uneven, and musical,
and some urgent truth will arrive with the darkness,
becoming a tradition that I’ll hope to repeat for years.