Mindless nature brought forth rational history
and the unreasoning gods. Her same ministries
sustain the philosopher and other brutes; her children,
through her earthiness, exchange molecules, magnetic tugs
and The Question. She must watch her human offspring
like a stand of trees staring at a ship — a small wreck
of a boat, a fragmented dream of a great
sinking into a swell of poison
spread from its own hull, the passengers
dying in certain hope of rescue
except for one old man maybe who’s seen too much
who thinks, How can one death come from her
and another from us, and how at this late moment
can I trade one for the other,
or does it matter?
I don’t like this one, either. It doesn’t cohere.