We forget about death before,
And after. It is on the tip of our tongue,
the clutches of our sacrificial smiles.
I wonder if we are desperate
To confirm meaning in life, evident there’s none
In death, or even in the dead things:
Lakes and trees growing
The ordinary life of wonder,
Fertilized by our indifferent wildernesses?
Alive, our insides are as dead
To each other
As the lakes and trees
That mean something to us,
To be sure, a misunderstanding,
And despite this, loved,
A mystery, thus, also.