Sunday Morning Argument
Given the sound of the hallway clock's gears.
Given the sound of tires on segmented road.
Given the bland order of the morning.
Given the man who seems to be too old
for his body walking the sidewalk.
Given his swaying in a tattered blue suit,
holding out a vaguely proffered hand.
Given the ragged, deranged woman who wanders
daily along the highway. Given her resting
on the curb among her bags and boxes
as if pushed down by God's rough thumb.
Given the spotted mutt
testing the pavement with a rangy paw,
trying to find a moment
to cross among the traffic.
Given the deep green hillside
on which black cows lumber
and then graze and then lumber.
Given the water that evaporates
and gathers in the necessary air.
Given the thick gray sky.
Given the two vultures circling
above a Carthaginian field,
testing the air for rotting flesh.
Given that Abraham raises a crude knife,
wanting to stop. Given that Mary Shelley dreams
of dead William, wanting him back.
Given that black limbs stand against the horizon.
Given the sun that rises over Belsen,
its light glinting off watchtowers
and barbed wire. Given the mist
that rises as insects leap in the grass.
Given that Pluto is a mean 3.67 billion miles from the sun
and very cold.
Given the man braking in the left turn lane,
waiting for the green arrow.
Given the idle of engines.
Given the solidity of stone,
the void of rhetoric.
The red winged ants are mating.
The stegosaurus is dying.
The viruses are resilient.
The stones stand in rich soil.
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