after a poem by Tao K’ai

by normal

maybe i should be an old man
sitting on a mountain top
with pure clean wind painting
my body with new spring hope.
maybe, it will never be that way;
i will remain dug in, here
at eyes–view, watching
the world peel itself down
with hurricane & virus
with separation & lies.
i would teach how futile this
endgame is, but
who would listen?
time runs short —
the inscriptions for tomorrow
are growing secure, they
remain dappled in prattle &
blather among the stars
in the gossip of the galaxies
in the throat of time.

— by normal, on his 77th birthday