Poetry | Bruce Bond

Van Gogh, Olive Trees


The journey feels unlikely with coincidence

and fate, and yet whatever confidence

spins us through the great design remains

a little nervous.  I barely think of it.

Earth’s demise is something I write off.

Like a nightmare or vascular condition. 

Sunlight comes and goes and goes.  Who here

is any less compulsive.  Do the extremities

of alignment and disorder describe, for you,

two candidates for a bad day.  Lucky me.

My cat is funny.  Nothing means nothing 

to her.  She eats.  She plays.  She eats the hand

that feeds her.  Just kidding, she says, I’d never

do that.  And then.  By accident, she does.


Dante says the suicides in hell

search in vain for the bodies they threw

away.  So it is written, says the writer

to the soul for whom one life grew

inconceivable, one death unbearable

to the daughter he abandoned.  If

design is cruel, what does it say about

us, the designers.  I thank heaven

I was born to question, listen, choose

life and search for it in hell.  Dante says,

suicides turn to trees because they fall,

when they fall, at the feet of the trees.

I know you, I say to the branches, I

loved you once.  And looked for you in vain.

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