Pond Song

Because I don’t know the language

of the cranes or the grasses, everything

that I write about them is speculation.

To speak a song, to strip the music

from it softly—

My life does have a quiet beauty to it,

though it’s corrupted by my human longing,

all my cruel appointments.

To stay, to feel justified in staying,

I had to learn a new way of listening.

This looked a lot like lying to myself,

which sometimes relieved me

because at least it was a kind of creation.

O fellow passengers:

I, too, am a mess.

I, too, am looking at the mess, which I made,

which I am never outside of, no matter where I go.

I bring it with me like an offspring or

another limb.

Even my loneliness, which is another name

for my body & how it moves through the world,

is unimpressive, average.

The cranes bend expertly to the water

because that’s exactly what they’re meant for.

The old songs are sung just out of earshot.

Even if we could hear them,

we would have to listen so, so closely.

It’s unlikely that any of us are doing this right.