In Richmond a man
wins a stock car race
by booting two competitors
out of contention —
one to the wall, the other
almost so — thousands watch it
and five million others
have an opinion, and are enraged
or delighted; in Paris
a woman clumsily break dances
and defends it, a crowd watches it
and is bemused
and five million others
have an opinion and are enraged
or delighted; and I

don’t care in the slightest,
I don’t care at all about opinions
or bemusement or rage when it comes
to these things.

What I care about
is the slighter things, the ease with which
the earth rotates and the wars
upon its surface; the kiss
of the dragonfly to the surface of the pond
and how a child responds to that
with the bullets whizzing about
and the sudden need to duck from
one or more; the end
of the world, in fact, combined
with the birth of the earth and indeed
how the cosmos surged into us —

how we still have wars
and still quibble about stock cars
and still fret about breakdancing
when the planet is a jewel
and all it is, in fact,
is a tale about God.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T