Today, ten thousand people will die  
and their small replacements will bring joy  
and this will make sense to someone  
removed from any sense of loss.  
I, too, will die a little and carry on,  
doing some paperwork, driving myself  
home. The sky is simply overcast,  
nothing is any less than it was  
yesterday or the day before. In short,  
there's no reason or every reason  
why I'm choosing to think of this now.  
The short-lived holiness  
true lovers know, making them unaccountable  
except to spirit and themselves—suddenly  
I want to be that insufferable and selfish,  
that sharpened and tuned.  
I'm going to think of what it means  
to be an animal crossing a highway,  
to be a human without a useful prayer  
setting off on one of those journeys  
we humans take. I don't expect anything  
to change. I just want to be filled up  
a little more with what exists,  
tipped toward the laughter which understands  
I'm nothing and all there is.  
By evening, the promised storm  
will arrive. A few in small boats  
will be taken by surprise.  
There will be survivors, and even they will die. 

"Choosing to Think of It" by Stephen Dunn