Where Is My Animal Certainty?
Where is my animal certainty, those good tunes
I know but cannot carry? Someone has swept up
my terror like so much soft hair from the cutting
room floor, made me a fat, loose braid
to tack to my hat. Go ahead and laugh
at this ridiculous costume, but do step forward,
do tell me what to name a world that eats its own
fortresses like stale pastry, while hungry
cubs come into the cities to scavenge.
I find water, but no honey, and one wheel
that spun off the cart — not a food.
I find the best of families, clusters of fiddleheads
that face each other as they unfurl — shall we
try that? Or shall we just take sun
and be silent a while, listen
to the bees, see how
at the lip of each yellow abyss,
they do not falter in their work.