In Lakewood that weekend, three boys
died; the Sabbath, you know, and no one
could turn off the stove left on accidently
as night fell. And all weekend it burned,
and the family that believed, slept anyway,
and then the fire, and the trucks arrived
in 3.5 minutes, less than the average, but
not good enough. What now has fallen
on their heads, this mamma and poppa,
like all mammas and poppas who protect
their children and hold their hands up
to fend off the falling mountain of sky
and the world so tumblingly fertile
that it makes the head spin? As if each
of us were at the center of the earth,
the axis around which it all revolves.
Imagine your arms and legs extended,
the world depending on you, but you
know you’re inadequate every waking
minute and week and month and year
and millennium, and how you try so hard
until at last you can’t help but fall asleep.
