June 7, 2020

Commencement

         For the graduating classes of 2020

By now, it's a truism,
and truisms, as a rule,
are not the stuff of
poetry.

Hell, if you ask
many professionals
they're not even fit for
prose.

Of course, there are
good and sensible
reasons for this,
chief

among them how
hollowed-out is the
unearned, unlived
platitude,

how devoid of the
textures of world, how
divorced from bodily
sense.

Yet, the world seems
unmoored, right now,
allergic to even the
idea

of truth. Perhaps a
reintroduction is in
order. I'll start
(again):

Ends mark beginnings.
Wind breaks the heavy
sunflower head, scatters
resurrection.