What have the starfish
—glowing bright—
stolen from so many millions of stars?
If the information age cannot tell us,
if the digital age cannot,
nor the pulsating electronic nodes constantly circling
in and around our heads,
how can we lull ourselves
peacefully to sleep at night,
content in our ignorance?
Mystery is tangible, is constant-
ly converting
the preying jaws of death
into a rocking chair, a La-Z Boy,
something colored-smooth and reclined.
Life resides here,
there. Death.
Luminous harvest of some ample never,
glowing bright, bright.
Even if you never learned how to swim,
even if you are 20,000 leagues under the sea
swarming in starfish,
it is impossible to drown,
to awake and—in wonder—
believe and be whole again.

The sun milks the grass,
the flowers arrive at wisdom

is easy to come by,
impossible to learn.

The smell of blood.
When we are not sterling,

listening, sleeping,
we are overcome

by rest, rest, rest.
The average human being blinks

17,000 to 22,000 times a day,
17,000 to 22,000 blinks

which go entirely unnoticed, unrecalled,
forgotten before the inevitability

of their instant.
The grass is in the green.

Our childhoods are annotated,
our marriages, our loves, our failures, our deaths,

by the sky, the sky, the blue blue sky,
its clouds sifting through to assert

that we are not our own masters.
No, we are not our own masters.

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