Someone counted to seven, then
stopped. The great pyramid, the hanging
gardens of Babylon, a statue of Zeus.
The Temple of Artemis, the Colossus
of Rhodes, the Lighthouse at Alexandria,
the Mausoleum at Halicarnassus.
Such grandeur. But how does the tiniest snail
never scrape its head on the lintel no matter
how many times it goes in and out the door?
Who taught the tuberose and the night
phlox to dress themselves with scent
after the sun goes down?
While you sleep, your brain eats up
the debris it creates from doing all
the complex things it does.
A chicken was nearly beheaded
by an axe which missed its jugular
and most of the brain stem.
For over a year it was fed
with an eyedropper through
the odd-shaped hole in its neck.
Thousands of exhausting miles
from the sea, salmon and trout
struggle upstream to spawn.
Something about home— Wonder
in the ordinary stones, the astonishment
at how much the body can remember.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
