On a Day That Bombs

On a day that bombs were being dropped by drone aircraft
in several regions of Libya, blowing apart fragile bodies,
many of whom were living their sincere and momentary lives,
it was a perfect day here except for the wind and the flies.
The flies were too large to ignore. It was 73 degrees.
The woods smelled of pine, and there were squirrels and
chipmunks. A thousand mayflies that had died overnight
waved at me from the porch. I could hardly be present
for both, could I?—the bombs and the mayflies. So I chose
one, then the other, like closing one eye, then the other,
watching the subtle shift from one side of the nose
to the other, or you could shift a chair from one side
of the table to the other and make a whole different room.
Both sides’ urgent consequence. I think of the word
fragile: its dual syllables a form of concealment, both
history and mystery, sun and shade. I am writing this because
I don’t know what is appropriate in this world. The Jews mix
bitter herbs with the Passover meal for the bitter lives
of the slaves in Egypt. It strikes me how sane the Jews are,
after all their abuse, their homelessness, and how intensely
insane. I think of Philip Roth, Isaac Singer, Yehuda Amichai.
Why do I always think of an irrational violin in a minor
chord, not human, not even a bird-cry, more like the sound
of nutrinos slipping through everything, grazing the edges
as they pass, just a small scratch, but adding up.