The minded world has lost its will, but the falcon
continually circles. One must eat. Even he,
winging next to the aura of the dulling sun,
must go on. And children died last month.
Nineteen, mostly girls, gone in concert,
then gone forever. Here, a son also. 19.
We celebrate in graduations, party as if
it were insurance against sinking, alone
and unable to reach branches. Perhaps
we ought to--I stop, as often in earlier decades,
to watch the motion of ants circle a dark hole.