Fume Stone

In an age when the world mind
Seems to rage in each of us,

It’s strange to note the whole hours
When we do what no one knows

Nor cares to know—go short bits
Here or there with not one soul—

Save, if we have one, our own,
And none at all, if we don’t.

Near whole days on my fume stone
At the edge of the black cliff

Left when this ground oozed fused earth,
I sit and sulk while I wait

For the smoke to leave my thoughts.
Once it does, I can see out

Past my false gods (all gods are,
And all thoughts, no doubt) to blue—

A bit of grey haze in it,
To be sure, and flames out there,

Out of sight, but blue, but bright
And winged by dense blue pine jays,

Who screech for their own cached dreams
And not what I think of things.

Who sees me at times like these,
When I let the world mind die

To red and gray chunks of coal,
And the least gust clears the air?