You Have Nothing to Fear
but a small kitchen fire,
replied my new friend John,
so I will write this poem, which,
like John’s, will only include
‘real things,’ meaning
what’s wakened—
No dreams or gods, just
the facts
that make waking worth doing, like
watching boiling water
buffet up an egg
for a full five minutes, because
(I’d realized)
a watched pot always boils—
This
was incredibly
encouraging. Although it still hurt
to be a human being—mandated
interactions with chairs,
your corporation of atoms, its forced
mergers
with air and food, is it any wonder
that extending a hand
meant touching some grief? (today
a student’s love poem,
“burdened with stars”)—
Like in the movie Hereafter,
how George (the psychic) realizes
he can love Marie
only once he has seen her death—
It’s their Lazarus come-back
after a tsunami,
actual (hers), emotional (his) . . .
When he touches you he can see
your body’s end. You’ve asked him
to see it. You don’t want him
to see it.
But you need to come to,
you need to spit up the water
from your listing
death-smashed
house. 
Moo and Thrall
You Have Nothing to Fear
