I am not obsessed with it, despite another friend
whose eyes have rolled back behind his lids
as if to dream of something else for awhile
on new and endless landscapes: some manicured,
some wild, I imagine—it could be hell, otherwise.
There are so many ways to see if you look, and
so much of that looking is stitched in the cosmos
of your mind. Perhaps it finds a kind constellation
or star to forever inhabit, or just hangs in near space
breathing in and out of the open pores we nurtured.
A track we cannot see, but feel and understand
is real and shaped for certain places, certain
loves or things for certain human beings. Or
what good are blathering old men if they can’t
help, offer something other than a black wall?
Blessed is this slow dementia that hears voices
atop ridges and off the slick steep slopes,
around gossip rocks beneath the oaks to find
rhymes I want to hear that make better sense
of living well than what’s for sale.