by Alice Fulton

There is no caring less

for you. I fix on music in the weeds,

count cricket beats to tell the temp, count

my breaths from here to Zen.

September does its best.

The Alaskan pipeline lacks integrity,

mineral fibers are making people dizzy,

we're waiting for a major quake. Ultra-

violet intensity is gaining,

the ozone's full of holes and

I can find no shade.

There is no caring less.

Without the moon the earth

would whirl us three times faster, gale-force

winds would push us down. Say

earth lost mass, a neighbor

star exploded -- it's if

and and and

The cosmos owns our luck.

Say under right and rare conditions,

space and time could oscillate.

I know what conditions

those would be for me.

I'd like to keep my distance,

my others, keep my rights reserved.

Yet look at you, intreasured,

where resolutions end.

No matter how we breathe

or count our breaths,

there is no caring less

for you for me. I have to stop myself

from writing "sovereign," praising

with the glory words I know.

Glaciologists say changes

in the mantle, the planet's vast

cold sheets could melt. Catastrophe

is everywhere, my presence

here is extra -- yet --

there is no caring less.

Alice Fulton is the author of a collection of essays, (1999). Her poem in this issue will appear in her new book, to be published next year.

All material copyright © 2000 . All rights reserved.