Tired of all our words
being about ourselves and other
people.  Not only tired of
the bad words, not just tired of
the good words; sick of all the words
being put into service of our selves
and our venal yearnings.

To be or not to be,
to do or not to do,
whether we should do it
or someone else should,
how much we are loved
and how much we love in return;
all too much.  All unworthy of
one more weary attempt
at squeezing art
from the commonplace, 
the pseudo-universal — 
we are so little of what is.

To give up the pursuit
of human meaning,  
the exclusive chase for
human justice
and human peace, 
to end this unceasing gaze
upon human, human, human —

here’s a rock. Tell of its
inner life, its mineral dreams.
Here’s an oak log rotting in 
the deep unraked leaves 
of old growth. Speak of how the decay
feels to its empty cells, to the molds
and fungus inhabiting it. Perhaps
these last small patches
of grey, ragged snow may offer
a unique perspective on the advent
of Spring, some point of view
unheard till now.  Get an ear on these
and listen. There may be new ideas here;

listen. There may be a new urgency here;
listen. There may be a need for
entirely new language here,
it may require a new brain; if so, listen

then grow whatever’s needed to get beyond 
the tired trope of human; it can’t hurt
much more than what we do now hurts,
and it may not even work — in fact
it won’t — but it may be that
this attempt, this translation, is
what we were put here to do,
and for the love of all 
that’s yet to be seen as holy
if that is the case
there’s so little time
and so much left to be done.