Yeah, I'm going to read a new poem.
This one's called "Habitable Nebula."
And you know you write a book that's all 20-line poems
and probably conventional wisdom says, do something different
now.
No, I'm still writing in-- still writing in
20 line poems, got a few of them,
I'm going to read you one of them tonight.
This one's called "Habitable Nebula."
Let me have a little sip.
And after this, I'll read the last poem in the book.
"Habitable Nebula."
The long night reminds me that so much
of what it means to be a person shines through obscurity
like odd condiments bought on impulse,
tested once, then pushed to the back of the refrigerator,
and they're smartly labeled "bottles and jars,"
it's like a birth of stars or nights
an actor plays their part so flawlessly the audience
gives no thought to gastroenteritis
or its various causes--
viruses, bacteria, bacterial toxins, parasites,
and so forth-- till hours after the last act is dust.
But setting aside all that small stuff,
there's still the entirety of the past, invisible or visible
only in traces, as among the blur
that sets in during speeches or when speeding to the launch
past signage that tries to communicate but by habit,
we ignore.
I still can't say what life is for
but it can't be to pretend that every part of it is knowable
or that what happens to be to the naked eye or in the middle
ground or documented on paper approximates
a person any better than a daisy does or a sun.
When at a loss for what I am, I know
I must be feeling it deep in the layers
where a turbulence gives rise to clouds, so massive they
collapse in a bliss of gravity, condensing into this music:
I can daisy into morning as it daisies me into morning.