Like the sloth I would be looking
up toward the tree crowns, even though
I hung heavy from the longest branch,
all my weight supported by claws

and the stupid faith of these arms
moving me relentlessly toward
the outer reaches, the sweet new leaf
close to the place where I decide

when effort and desire will part.
The truth is, I don’t want a thing
from this world. I look into sky
to flush out the cluttered detail

right in front of me. These ants,
for instance:  They march onto my tongue
as if sinners could go somewhere
wet and dark with their grief, as if

I could release them easy
as a syllable. Who am I
to be a palace of expectation?

-Richard Robbins