the earth stands
the earth stands pretending to be part of a plenum,
though it is stuffed full of us, all stitched together
from gappy absences we never noticed,
or hoped to notice, part of evolution's
stringent terms of service.
we are not as wise as a dog, who threatens
leaves and birds and friends and strangers,
and other dogs in particular, just for the insolence
and sheer impertinence of generally speaking
daring to exist, because behaving otherwise
would be ridiculous, and some things a dog
just has to do although he lives his silence better
than we, and has nothing much to prove.
the earth stands still full of worlds and observable
nonsense that our being put there, fatuous
absences where childhoods might have been.
all our faults are our own fault for persisting
with them, living in all the missing, the debility,
the disease, as if we were homesick,
and nevertheless deserving of our dreams.
the only possible god i might ever respect
would be Sartre's old black lady with no face
or name, no place in modernity, no promised
eternity but a profound respect for epistemology:
the only sin would be to believe in her,
the only duty to believe in her absences better