That, right there, was the rest of my life,
Mosaic plague of darkness I could feel.
But let us be cheerful and kick up our heels,
I said to myself in the handsome canyon,
Watching a bighorn kid skitter down
Ten of thousands of fine layers of gone years
In spring. The kid did as instructed, fled,
And body smiled. Even self pretended to be
Contented. The barometer dropped as well,
And cliff cloud accumulations darkened
Promisingly. Why is it, when we are gloomy,
Facing embarrassments and failures, likely
Or merely imagined, we are more in love
With sudden catastrophes and start to hope
Every cloud on the horizon portends storms?
If the world burns, no one collects debts,
Sure, but wouldn't you rather have debts
Than burn to death? I studied the names
Of the early Latter-Day Saints who scraped
By through this desert unlike any home
Any of them had previously known. The end
Encouraged them, encourages anyone
Somehow to keep going, that sense it is not
My fault if it all falls, that sense it is not
In my hands whatever befalls, the sense it is
Likely to be decided correctly, fully, soon.
Then one by one our days went on, bodies
Ended, our burnt selves swapped among
The bodies left alive a few words, puppets,
Threadbare ashes torn to serve as ghosts,
And before you know it, there is no end.
You were; others are, maybe descendants
Among them, maybe uncaring strangers like
Me staring up at your scratched identities
Cloven-hoofed critters skitter across.
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