Who Cares About Causality

Jessica Morey-Collins

The world is a dangerous place. 
The texture of bread depends on the weather,
and weather depends on the taste of bread.
I have tended my thoughts and still they leech, toxic,
into my body. Property washes onshore 
for years after a sea-floor fault slips 
and cities inundate. Among the debris, a family finds
a soccer ball and sends it back
across the ocean to its owner. Ecosystems
weave through sunk motorcycles, particulate plastic
finds its way back to us, absorbed 
in the flesh of fish. Life buds and drips 
off branches. The city in the forest
is the forest in the city—death dribbles
into life. Tight orbit of pest with pesticide. 
Do exterminators wake grateful for roaches 
who probe unwelcome into human homes? Wind shoves
the morning storm into the mountains—the valley blooms
dew hungry, gulps sun. I am determined 
to survive myself. Whole disciplines
devote themselves to wonder—thumb pages
by the thousands—the world itches
in all its scope and detail. 
I'll never understand it.