Neil Jung

SUCH AS MYSELF

How can one forget each day to eat something

or palm dry gobs of vitamins

or eye the nubile bark of the pink dogwood

burning like adolescence right there

in the miserable scrub of land,

in what no one would call a lawn—

not even the dictionary,

not even the newly born

into this language which trembles

like a rattle. How can one begin

the swim upward, through air,

through the sizzling day,

upward to the moon which is immense

at least to us singing our tiny

songs, each to each and then to no one at all.

And to the bottlebrush throngs

of the oversexed caterpillars

inching their wing-starved lives

towards a mate, towards their alien mating,

how can one make amends

to the living for all the dead

smashed beneath our shadows.

How can one sink in water

and wish to come back

to the reedy bank of the world

that will not pass away,

no matter the apple in the dream,

no matter the girl robed

in rain. How can one answer the choir of crows.

How can one weigh the air

against the gate of glass,

the dew-slick window,

the front door thrumming with the orbit of the days.

How can one turn out

the pockets of his love

and not fear the inventory.

How does one stop

the horizon spinning like a compass.

How does one go on.