Compatibilist

Awareness was intermittent. It sputtered.
      And some of the time you were seen
         asleep. So trying to appear whole

         you asked of the morning: Is he free
      who is not free from pain? It started to rain
a particulate alloy of flecked grey: the dogs

wanted out into their atlas of smells; to pee
      where before they had peed, and might
         well pee again – thought it isn’t

         a certainty. What is? In the set,
      called Phi, of all possible physical worlds
resembling this one, in which, at time t,

was written ‘Is he free who is not free – ’
   and comes the cramp. Do you want
      to be singular, onstage, praised,

      or blamed? I watched a field of sun-
   flowers dial their ruddy faces toward
   what they needed and was good. At noon

they were chalices upturned, gilt-edged,
      and I lived in that same light but felt
         alone. I chose to phone my brother,

         over whom I worried, and say so.
      He whispered, lacked affect. He’d lost
my record collection to looming debt. I

forgave him – through weak connections,
      through buzz and oceanic crackle –
         immediately, without choosing to,

         because it was him I hadn’t lost; and
      later cried myself to sleep. In that village
near Dijon, called Valley of Peace,

a pond reflected its dragonflies
      over a black surface at night, and
         the nuclear reactor’s far-off halo

         of green light changed the night sky
      to the west. A pony brayed, stamping
a hoof on inlaid stone. The river’s reeds

lovely, but unswimmable. World death
      on the event horizon; vigils with candles
         in cups. I’ve mostly replaced my records,

         and acted in ways I can’t account for.
      Cannot account for what you’re about
to do. We should be held and forgiven.

From Airstream Land Yacht, by Ken Babstock
Copyright © 2006 Ken Babstock