  What do you think this poem is about?   The Lilacs Are Not
Blighted By Rust  the sky isn’t soiled by a storm. The stars
don’t despair in the darkness they’re alone, and the swallows
are not deterred by death. Ever hear the wind complain of the
load it bears or the earth weary of being the footstool of
mountains? Water serves unreservedly the efforts of the irises
along its banks. Hard and indifferent as it is sometimes to be
here, living is a blessing and a boon that never asks for
thanks, like oxygen, the table’s been set in the absence of a
host but that doesn’t keep everyone from feeling like a guest.
Praise to the capability of all those things I can take for
granted like a heart beating without intervening instructions
from the supervisory mind.  Eras of Cambrian seabeds within me
shale loveletters inked in the flesh and blood of my starmud
like fossilized cuneiform teaching me the abc’s of this
elaborate alphabet I’ve evolved into trying to read my
chromosomes like the plot of a lost epic with a futur