I don’t understand the cicadas
in my throat, coal in my chest,
tiny mushrooms called death stars,
scar, scar, scar, all the current theories
declaring the end of meaning although
I don’t know what meaning means other
than partaking in the general alarm,
skylark-prickled dawns, inevitability
of causing harm I’d rather not understand.
If my house is on fire, it’s no news to me.
If the sinkhole ain’t my confidante, I sure
ain’t its windmill. No god? No sweat.
No hope? So what. I won’t let the ice
on my face be wasted, won’t mistake
its melting for tears.