Continued

Apolitical Poem

Apolitical Poem Nature's motor ticked, chirped and bubbled, hummed and rumbled, almost swelled, although the river was shallow, small, in fact a brook, the late-day sun was warm, no rain fell, and crickets changed shifts smoothly, technically perfect — you couldn't hear the gaps, it was like some absolutely packed silence: the mechanism ran on steadily and didn't choke at all on itself or on the surfeit of voices asif still covered by warranty issued by god knows who, without stamps, without paperwork— with a handshake, or even with the wind— and yet in the machinery everything played on, rolling not quite so evenly, now nearer, now further off, from all sides, moderately or forcefully, as it pleased, like an orchestra whose particular components, primary parts —the instruments and maybe the audience too, the blades of grass 48 my eyes surveyed, nettles and ferns— didn't move, just stood there as if they were either dead or still had time, or patience. 49 ...