That which does not kill us

Can you believe it? Behind what lasts exists

another living, next to what's real occurs

something less discernible. Like if I am

a beekeeper (checking my hives, using my

smoker) but actually I appear also to be

a philosopher (bright eyes, dark thoughts).

Are we people more than eyes, hands, ideas?

Are we more than atoms, veins, kneecaps?

Because we refuse to live in a world lacking

merciful meaning, because we can't thrive

without a loving purpose? Maybe we are

as this: like we have places where we bake

burgers, visit the graves of our ancestors 

(mumbling thin poems), visit websites

searching for our next car, we also cherish

notions in which we shape eternity, burn

candles for the saints (mutter dense songs),

dream of heavens in which we receive

all the necessities of a whole new presence

(gumboots, bamboo fishing rod, worms).