There are two of every kind,
though
the battle lines are a bit blurred these days.
Who
measured these awful cubits of would?
The
boat is tilted, crowded and heaving
as
if it had no axis, no sun to worship
on
days when Proteus sweeps the oceans
into
a shroud because Frost could make no peace
between
fire and the weeping polar ice.
The
incense from the forge and factory
does
not appease the carpenter or his boss,
who
thought the trip on a heavenly whirligig
might
last a hundred billion apocalyptic spins
after
Adam knocked up fruit-filled Eve.
We
drift through space, a milkweed spore
on
an ark, nothing less and nothing more.
The
wheel and a spark of electric flint
have
become the nuclear flu, a covid strain
with
binary digits running God’s motherboard.
Let
there be bread for the wandering wastrel horde
riding
the nonstop snow-piercing equatorial train.
Let
there be a dove with an olive branch,
a
night when only dolphins and crickets sing.
Let
there be a hundred million miracles
on
this troubled, ancient, spinning thing.
~William Hammett
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