I listened to the radio, the BBC, bouncing via satellite
From a booth or a disk, a planet's half turn ahead of me,
Windows open, tumbledown sandstone and yellowing cottonwoods
In front of me, as they interviewed the terminal and the elderly,
Keen to know, for them to tell us, how they most wished they had been.
Why do we strive to compile the regrets of the dying?
What do we possibly think we're preventing?
Why is it unbearably melancholy to imagine
This wide world is as it evidences itself to be,
Everything really everything, nothing really nothing,
No plan, no mistakes, no alternative to this cosmos
That happens to be, infinitely subdivided indefinitely,
Containing the desire and the math to explain itself
And predict itself probably, but never beyond what was,
Never was? Meaning: given meaning, what could it mean
It never meant anything more than that hawk's scream?
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