a poem by Frederick Pollack
Inside the Piñata
Beyond their wrappers, candies merge.
Toys, unsure where they begin or end,
grow vain and grand. So closely do we lie
together in the jumble that,
for us, is order; we are All Good Things.
A smell like Guadalajara
when factories bake tortillas for the week
joins the sweetness of new plastic
and plush in a larger, jellied sweetness.
We have no senses but you do;
we're glad that smell is there for you.
It isn't, admittedly, the odor
of the universe, as beige is the color.
But if a box a girl was tricked
into opening released the whole, then we
must hang, a motley donkey, there.
Wondering if we exist.
And whether, once you've found
a stick to beat us forth, grave awe
or greedy laughter would be proper.
And whether joy is one or many.
The latter. Think how, at this moment,
somewhere in nature swarms your virus.