Misunderstood And disillusioned, I go on describing this place And the way it feels to live and die. The "natural world" And whatever else it's called I drive in and out of town Seeing no edge, breathing sky And it's hard to describe Without seeming absurd. I know there's no other world: Mountains and websites Dark smoke fills the air Some from the fire in my house Some from me driving around I could see the lights of town Through the trees on the ridge On my way home in the dark. I meant all my songs Not as a picture of the woods But just to remind myself That I briefly live. The gleaming stone The moon in the sky at noon There is no other world And there has never been. I still walk living sleeping Life in the real world of clouds Clawing for meaning. Still when I see branches in the wind The tumultuous place where I live Calls out revealing. "Can you see the river in the branches And know that it means you will die And that pieces are churning?" "Can you find a wildness in your body And walk through the store after work Holding it high?" I've held aloft some delusions. From now on I will be perfectly clear: There's no part of the world more meaningful And raw impermanence echoes in the sky. There is either no end Or constant simultaneous end and beginning. A pile of trash The fog on the hill Standing in the parking lot squinting.