The Lines in This Part of the Poem

If you must punch, punch
Up, not down, seems wise,

Seems kind. Are you sure?
This world’s full of beasts,

And it’s hard to miss
The fact that things hunt,

For the most part, lives
Not too small to eat,

And if it’s not size,
Then it’s the head count,

Six wolves to one moose,
Boats of men per whale.

Life kills but floods death,
With herds, flocks, swarms, spores.

It’s how words and lines
Hunt sun and night down,

One more, just one more,
And then more. The lines

In some poems, bunched tight,
May seem to punch up,

May seem to be brave
Fools for a great truth,

But we’re clouds of gnats.
Most fail or get slapped,

Black specks smudged flat. Still,
More gnats! How is that?

Come on, get up. Don’t
Stay down for the count.

Death’s punch drunk, too. Come on
Gnats. Land. Punch down. Draw blood.