Trails

A deep-sea sponge does move.
It takes its time, more time

Than you have for your life.
It has no feet, no limbs,

No eyes, no nerves, no heart.
It can’t hop, float, or flex,

But it gets there. It has
No roots to hold it down.

On sea floors, in the dark,
Right now, while you read this,

Hear this, or sleep through this,
The sponge crawls. More than one—

Whole deep-sea peaks are mats
Of sponge, like mats of scrub

Trees, dwarf woods, grass, and moss
That cling to the cold, blown ground

On the peaks in the air,
But these woods move. Right now,

In the dark, on sea floors,
Home to them, where they live,

The great hosts of the sponge
Move, bit by bit by bit,

To leave their trails to trace
What a vast beast life is.

You Feel in Your Chest, How It Spins and Spins

If the drought lasts,
And the crops fail,
And shelves go bare,
And the woods burn—

If the flood comes,
And the dam breaks,
And you brought it
On your own heads—

If, like the song
Says, it won’t help
To cry, and it
Won’t help to pray—

Don’t just stand there.
Plan to ask as
Nice as you can
Who’s left you can.

What’s Left

Is all of it
The worst of it
The best of it
All the whole time

It does not shrink
It will not rise
Just things in it
The waves in it

Rise fall and rise
And you are waves
On waves on waves
What’s left of you

Is all you are
And all you’ve been
And who knows what
Who knows who knows?