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| Van Gogh, Olive Trees |
Design
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.
Designer
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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