Tao

I am a pinion tree atop a mesa,
hollowed out for a nest of beetles.

I am a black raven atop an adobe house
watching my great-grandson while he sips his coffee.

I am the straw covered in sticky mocha residue in the empty glass
on the veranda coffee table.

I am a tracked Caterpillar back hoe
massively affecting the earth.

I am the earth, all of the worms, roots,
and coffins inside of me.

I am the dried tight skin of great-grandmother’s cheek
and the flowers adorning her headstone.

I hold up the aircraft, the clouds,
and the gaze and hearts of romantics.

I am also the surprise when a ball of pocket lint floats away
on the wind when you pull your car keys out of your pocket.

I am the spike of sadness you feel when you see firemen pulling
a limp body out of a destroyed station wagon on the interstate.

I am the anti-art of Duchamp, the urinal he displayed as art in 1917,
and the anger in all of the critics of his artistic message.

I am both sides of a heated debate
about government education funding.

I am both the female and the male.
I am everything at once, and nothing at all.