I find it hard to believe
each moment occurs
only once, then disappears
forever. That the past
only exists as stored bits
of memory in molecular
apartments inside the
city of the brain. That
I’m not somewhere still
filling the thermos with
ice and water and heading
out the back door with
my father to work in
harvest, that Burt the cat
doesn’t still trill a friendly
brrrt when let in the door.
Not parallel universes
always careening into a
future, but a place where
it all rests on love, like
on the backs of turtles.

Reason, that cocky kid
who thinks he’s smarter
than everyone, stands,
arms folded, and scoffs.
As ridiculous as heaven,
he says. Then he gets
all Buddhist on me,
says life’s a continual
remix, everything
coming of something else
dying, down to the
atoms, the quirky stuff
smaller than that. I just
nod. He makes so much
sense. And yet . . .

Mark Hart’s first collection, Boy Singing
to Cattle (Pearl Editions, 2013), won the
Pearl Poetry Prize and was a finalist for
the 2014 Massachusetts Book Award.
His poetry has appeared in Atlanta
Review, Chautauqua, RATTLE and
numerous other journals. He works as a
psychotherapist in private practice, a
Buddhist teacher, and a religious
advisor at Amherst College.
by Mark D. Hart