In the past tense. We were. Noticed
not much. Loved as profession,
our children all our resumé. He said,
I don't think I should open your letter.
Who knows what sickness waits inside.
But let me tell you the moth on my door
had blue-green eyes. Had dried beech wings,
as if it had studied trees and chosen.
Patient under the magnifying
glass, that I might know it.
Let me look at you, at first from a distance.
Mir, the World, or is it Peace,
circle the planet waiting to come home. So long,
the cold. There was a silence, and I thought me gone.
Blind as numbers I would lay me down
in India or Indiana, fire works.
On New Year's Eve, fire will work for food.
But now the earth is talking back again
and tells me, robot on a little longer.
He who doesn't robot doesn't eat,
not even potatoes, not if fire's licked them.
So this is how the world goes on. You count
and someone tells you, go on counting.
After the flash, Two
thousand and one. Two
thousand and two. Till you hear the thunder.
H A M I L T O N S T O N E E D I T I O N S
p.o. box 43, Maplewood, New Jersey 07040