"everyone has their own devastation. each on its own scale.
i don't know what the key opens. i know we die,
and don’t know what is at the end. we don’t behave well.
and there are monsters out there, and millions of others
to carry out their orders. we live half our lives
in fantasy, and words. this morning i am pretending
to be walking down the mountain in the heat.
a vault of blue sky, traildust, the sweet medicinal
scent of mountain grasses, and at trailside—
i'm a little ashamed that i want to end this poem
singing, but i want to end this poem singing—the wooly
closed-down buds of the sunflower to which, in english,
someone gave the name, sometime, of pearly everlasting."
(thanks for this, sweet ada.)
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