I stand in cues and questions sometimes
  never knowing if I'm sane
  but does it matter, 
	does it tell us 
		anything?

I once stood on a mountain as it turned within, 
  a rumble noise and though I left,
  there but for Grace 
	my life would end so swiftly
  		as a gentle 
	(I can vouch for none of that) 
   		shake and rumble 
	upset tummy
	tearing from its insides out...

After all-- what's a human life or two,
  a stand of timber,
  a fox's set of tunneled homes?

Deeper gashes still . . .
		What of it?

The mountain lives, no doubt.

It shares its breath and speaks its heavy mind,
 then its head blows off
 and everyone says it's finished.

No.  I've seen the ash in the air again,
	not two months ago,
		though that one entirely fateful day 
		is ten years past now.

Still my memories are cues and questions,
 wondering Who-- just Who-- 
	is Player of this Game?

What's a human life or two,
 a stand of timber,
 a fox's set of tunneled homes?

 And deeper gashes still--

 A world in pain with itself 
	and guilt for generations . . .