Downstairs
Really. There is no abyss. Downstairs
there is merely a mess
to be cleaned
and dishes that need o be washed.
True darkness only obtrudes
when we turn out the lights.
When we turn out the lights we are alone.
Head downwards, we fall;
But it is only into bed.
We cover ourselves
with sheets, quilts, blankets.
It is too cold to take off one’s socks.
We try to visualize roses in the garden;
But it is demons with whom we cohabit.
The greatest distances
are like the demise of empires,
like stars blinking out, going nova, in another galaxy,
perceptible only at a thousand years’ interval.
It is the inability
to put clothes in the washer, to perform the most routine activities.
It is the ennui it generates.
Our frontal lobes are clogged, surfeited with information.
Debris accumulates.
It is amazing for how much we are responsible.
But we are not garbage men
and we refuse to become involved,
studiously ignore the jetsam with which we are surrounded.
The garbage men, if they ever arrive,
will take us away with them.