Debating options over lunch in the park,
Body wanted to dodge the noose, but self
Cared more about the stocks. They scolded
Each other, endlessly. Why? The day
Was bright, the details of the buzzards'
Feathers sharp against a bare blue sky.
Something will punish you both in the end,
Observed puppet. What will remain?
The comparative quiet of the city park
Stretched itself out upon the watered grass.
Any intentional community is a garden, if not
A greenhouse, requiring relentless
Maintenance to stably exist. What I love,
Said someone who lived like a courier
Between body and self, puppet and soul,
Is the way the world returns to wilderness
On its own. Self sourly replied that was small
Comfort to the fruit trees lost to the forest,
And body pointed out that wilderness was
Only an uncontrolled number of gardens,
Each maintaining its own, competing. What
Would be a miracle would be only if
There were no need for maintenance nor
Punishments, no heaps of burning weeds,
No outcast dead, no exclusionary principles
At all but still a sense of being, many senses,
A community. Heaven and Eden, gates ajar,
Unpatrolled, Yama and Satan strolling,
Arm and arm today from Hell Mouth to invite
A few devas and angels to picnic on this
Unattended, unstruggling, unmowed lawn.
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