The Long Now 8 (Lyre)

James Meetze

Men plunder men’s best interests
like elements that form earth
taken then woven
into secret conclave.

What moves me
to require a sturdy tree         
just one          of many
upright spires
            to hold to         
from which the anima emanates
is a natural force.

No time now for an age
           of reason.

Whose light militia must bear thee
arms in the upper air           in the bottom-
heavy           little hand’s           unnumbered spirits.
It bewilders me.
                        Lines unwill a shell.
It bewilders me until struck           a resonant
sonorous face
                     the last lovely face I see
          in the interest of brightness
of blooming into a universe.
A wound is not a world in itself
is not wound into a clock
It is not visited           by gods         has not limit
in time          but we so easily forget
the way the green           the air         gravity
holds us together.
           It isn’t unthinkable to be held
together           each of us           by the same matter.
It isn’t the traffic           or violence
time enacts           it isn’t the monster we keep
tucked inside until it becomes rage        
           or peerless sorrow
           that touches everyone
           the computer says we know.

These little paths of sun
this warm animal
polyglottal birdsong
my companions, my best interest
only I can squander.