I lie on my back in the lawnchair to study
the trees claw up toward heaven.
They have all the sap I lack.

It’s doubt I send rivering cloudways
in great boiling torrents, as if all creation
were a bad stage set I could wave

                                                            way away,
then I could cast my dark spells in a blink
and a flaming fingersnap—and
a universe de Mare pops up

so I win the everlasting argument against all
that was or will or tiredly is.
As if my soul would not in that blink

be obliterate. As if, as kids say.