So Much to Get By

It is not possible to think
the goose is concerned only
with himself, not when
his sounding is sympathetic
in your throat, loud
and seemingly without medium.

Like goose-flight across
the innumerable lawns,
you drive north & south
on Highway One, thinking
this is not the time you die,

No, this is the road past
the nuclear plant cooling tower,
its blooming white flower
shredded on stacked
strato-cumulus clouds.

Soon enough, in August,
it will be hotter,
but your disbelief still
wears socks and high tops,

denying even while the clytemnestra,
plunked into the clay and soaked,
is somehow still green,
the bees wend to what
loses its grip and falls,
ripe and sweet, through
dense dusty myrtle.

There is never only the goose,
when there are goslings
and the season before goslings,
when the chickadees fling grass seeds
onto a park path,
or after a few years, see:
he passes with the moon.