The littlest games the ego plays:
what a marvelous match.
And what but underbrush could burn
and burn away the burdens on your back?
There never has been an unintended clamor;
The commotion of the winds
will carry on in song and dance
and never touch the land —
Or maybe, in an Otherworld,
our gods are in a trance.
Our gods are building new canoes,
out of charcoal, and out of glass.