The Grand Illusion
Another fine day in the Anthropocene Era.
Another day commuting between neither here nor there.
Polishing our wordy brasses. Making music out of air.
Going that little bit farther into the forest,
suitably lost and finding comfort in our confusion.
One more morning, thank the stars, in the Grand Illusion,
among windfall and apparitions and visceral scents.
Shoring the flesh. Numbering the evergreens. Mending fences.
Another day of strolling about, sentient and conscious.
Above the earth, and not under the Terran confluence
of latitude crossing longitude. The last man standing,
everything that needs saying is already said.
Another day overseeing affliction and lament,
chartering my leaky craft, staunching the blowback and backdraft.
And it’s all going remarkably well, considering the alternative.
That silence that comes at the end of the day and keeps on going