Selected Poems [Volume: 7(1988), pp. 211-216]

What matters is its shape, not what it hears.
What is there to hear, anyway?
The clatter of paper shredders.
ON DEATH, WITHOUT EXAGGERATION
It can't take a joke,
find a star, make a bridge,
it knows nothing about weaving, mining, farming,
building ships or baking cakes.
In our talks about plans for tomorrow
it has the final word
which is always beside the point.
It can't even get the things done
which relate directly to its trade:
dig a grave,
or knock a coffin together,
or tidy up after itself.
Preoccupied with killing,
it does the job awkwardly,
without system or skill.
As though each of us was its first kill.
Oh, it has its triumphs,
but look at its countless defeats,
missed blows
and repeat attempts!
Sometimes it isn't strong enough
to swat a fly from the air.
Many's the caterpillar
that's out-crawled it.
All those bulbs, pods,
tentacles, fins, tracheae,
nuptial plumage and winter fur
show that it's fallen behind
with its half-hearted work.
Ill will won't suffice
and even our lending a hand with wars and coups d'etat
is, so far, not enough.
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