Sometimes It Takes a Goal of Eight

I'll begin here with T. S. Eliot,
And I will contemplate the situation,
Noting that the interference of a sneeze
Was a moment wasted of concentration,
A centering,
Reminding me that to concentrate
Is to not concentrate,
But to hear instead the undulating whizzing of faraway cicadas
Beneath the twitterchips of songbirds
That slice the sky,
Unbothered less by division of hours
Than they are by me.

Here's another confusing interruption:
My death,
Which comes upon me as a sneeze,
A centering,
Reminding me that to concentrate
Is to not concentrate,
But to hear instead,
The breathing of air through my nostrils,
The rise and fall of my belly,
The black starling hacking at me,
Cockeyed in the red maple tree
Where my treehouse once lofted above my childhood sandbox.

And itch from mosquito bite,
Cold vapor in cumulous clouds
A thousand feet above me,
Down here, near the grass is more humid,
And welcoming for situation of blood and proboscis
Than in the bowels of Kilauea
Or at the bottom of Mariana Trench
Where the strange creatures dwell unseen,
Like they do, too, in the cold damp caves
Beneath the grass
As they have for ten thousands of years.

Oye! Oye! The court is in session!
We will make sense of these words!
We will have confession!
We will know as it is!
We will see the bottom!
We will declare what is!
With sound uttered!
With speaking and declaring!
So help us, God!
So help us, Goblin Shark!
So help us, Long-Haired Yak!

The lawn mower also makes a sound,
Without intention,
Or perhaps with.
How could I know?
There is a trampoline in front of me where my daughters sometimes jump.
They push against it, and it pushes back against them.
Every time!
Is this a will?
Is this intentional?
It is tensional.
These are the same roots that dig deeper than the redwood tree.

Uck! Put it off!
These poems about language are tiresome.
Write about blue eyes instead.
Write about the smell of perfume.
Write about something to make the ladies feel good about themselves instead.
These are more interesting things.
Your words are tiresome.
Taco.
Limerick.
Doodle Dandees. Fur and Minecraft.
(Study hard this stanza! There is meaning within!)
Guilty!

Seven. Wordsworth.
Yes, the girl is dead.
We began with those sentiments.
Let's move on.
There are other studies.
There is also not death.
There is also bratwurst and honeysuckle.
There is also sunshine and freckle.
But yes, yes . . .
Death is something to think about from time to time.
How to think about it without words, though?
You must first learn about echolalia.

Put this here.
Put that there.
A tree grows in a garden.
It creates a space.
The mind orders it.
Here is a bird.
There is a bird.
One sings.
Two sing.
An egg is laid in a nest,
And the song continues.
There is no tomorrow.