Broken World

Because I can­not think about it
I keep think­ing about it.

The end­less shak­ing beneath my feet,
all foun­da­tions bro­ken, turned to powder.
In the street the screams and too soon
the quick dirty wave,
immense as the cold kingdom
in which the earth itself drifts.
So many hearts snapped shut at once
and then the dark pollen of fear,
a radi­a­tion blown far
to the still, shocked world.

In all that think­ing, no-thought rises.
The whole of any speech is “noth­ing can be said.”
The tsuna­mi of images pours like fate
from one screen to the next and the next
demol­ish­ing all chil­dren, parents,
broth­ers, sis­ters, friends.

Our lit­tle ride on the planet
each day comes clos­er to an end.
In each finite an infinite.
Beneath the moun­tain a well.
With every weak­ness a strength
waits for us. Now we have
only our lives to give each other.

Who will tell the grief of what is broken?
Plumb here, then,
where our house used to be,
and find Japan.

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