What I Don't Write About
My mother. This pain in my shoulder. This inertia
that pins me to my bed. My dogs' sad eyes.
The way light passes through water on birch leaves.
The quick, spotted kitten watching the goldfish.
Is too much intelligence a disadvantage? When there
are so few? Is this connection I feel with you, this
almost-spiritual tie, is this really only two high
I.Q.'s, recognizing one another? What good
does it do us? There is a coup in Thailand, where
you are. Demonstrations in Hungary. 6600 more
dead in Iraq. Our world leaders call each other
devils, and are not far wrong. Rain is still falling
into this garden. I dream I live in another universe,
with more dimensions, more creatures, more
poems. What if ... what if the bit of debris circling
the space station were discovered to be an artifact,
but not of earth origin? Would there be a sudden
silence across this planet, as we looked at each
other -- Muslim, Christian, Buddhist -- Iraqi,
Iranian, American -- would we suddenly be
merely human, just that -- one immense organism,
one vast and sentient race -- intelligent, we think?
These dogs need walking. This body still hurts.
Clouds are moving heavily, eastward. Stay safe.
--
~ SB =^..^=
http://www.sbpoet.com
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