A Prophecy
This morning, the windowsill full
of roly polies, those little military vehicles,
who’ve assumed, even in death,
their most defensive pose. You can try to change, the man
on the meditation app says, the world,
but it’s much easier to change your mind. I study its armor
of small curved plates, their ingenious overlap.
Each, in its sphere, guards itself.
Last night, a possum, comatose in the garden.
Stiff, it can suffer in this state
no pain. This is essential. The dog, baffled.
Un-numbed, unharmed, the possum
ambled down the alley hours later. The world,
disinterested in itself, turns its attention
to my mind.
