COLD COMFORT

Weather, whistle me this.

Soon you’re all we’ll talk about—

not in the old way, no longer

idle, but driving. Sure, we can

bury ourselves under a volcano

to simulate life on Mars

but the drill we run there

to test our ability to survive is

“my dog died.” Often it seems

we find ourselves in another

world. Often when we find

our way it happens in a moment.

Then we live to do it again.

Occasional divers are hesitant.

I tend to swerve with the knife.

Don’t you? Depraved heart,

this is where we stitch you up,

this is where we let you seam.

Most often it’s you that fails us,

never supposed to beat so long.