You Have Nothing to Fear

but a small kitchen fire,

replied my new friend John,

so I will write this poem, which,

like John’s, will only include

‘real things,’ meaning

what’s wakened—

No dreams or gods, just

the facts

that make waking worth doing, like

watching boiling water

buffet up an egg

for a full five minutes, because

(I’d realized)

a watched pot always boils—

This

was incredibly

encouraging. Although it still hurt

to be a human being—mandated

interactions with chairs,

your corporation of atoms, its forced

            mergers

with air and food, is it any wonder

that extending a hand

            meant touching some grief? (today

            a student’s love poem,

“burdened with stars”)—

When he touches you he can see

            your body’s end. You’ve asked him

to see it. You don’t want him

to see it.

But you need to come to,

you need to spit up the water

            from your listing

                        death-smashed

house.