Inanimate

Inanimate

Envy of unthinking things, 

who know by lack of knowing

that beneath the dirt is dirt

and dirt and dark, who pit

themselves against a cold

existence with a quiet fold

of wing or twitch of eye,

            the ones who sleep at night

unbothered by the promise

            of confronting the abyss:

A weed inclining to the light,

            A coriander seed asleep inside

a paper bag, the worker ant

            who bites my pinky toe and asks

me to consider pain like this

            but times a thousand for eternity,

and I decide I'd rather not

            consider this, or anything, if that

were an alternative, but since

            it's not I think I'll go pray again.