The storm is later than was forecast.
The wind hasn’t yet begun to shift
the dunes on the Cape, there’s no snow yet
in the Worcester hills. People
will soon be complaining
about the weather report,
even though it has favored them
so far with its inaccuracy — damn,
don’t you love people? Don’t you find
them as ridiculous and adorable
as infant Tasmanian devils, baby
demons as cute as any little
flesh shredders could possibly be?
The Super Bowl was on last night.
Half the audience hates half the audience,
half hate the halftime show, half hate the
commercials, half hate
that it even happened at all — damn,
don’t you just love people? Can’t you
see them in all their inscrutable glory
asking for absolution for every petty
act of genocide they’ve ever assisted
through the practice of minor binaries
and trivial hatreds?
In the meantime the bees are swarming
less and less and there are fewer to swarm
at all. In the meantime the winds
are starting to change, ruffling fewer furs,
whistling over drier lakes, taking more
bomb dust with them. In the meantime
we’re waiting for the loitering storm – damn,
why don’t you love, people? It’s not as it
there much time left. What could it hurt
to try and love? Except for the proud legacy
of standing alone in a carefully selected crowd
of your well-conforming peers, there’s not much point
in hanging on to it. Why don’t you just adore us,
people, we the maddening mad people? How different
we are from each other, how very much the same?