Walk long enough on a bum leg
and you might get worse
or more likely you might get far
gimp notwithstanding.

What if all things do conspire
for your good?
What if the sky-wide cover-up
by Big Business, Big Tech, Big Reality
cut and pasted
to your screens is so convincing
that you’re left dying
of thirst holding coconuts
heavy with sweet water
and nothing but your front teeth
to negotiate the shells?

Is God so generous as all that
cosmic harmony singing you
to dreams of mystical hilarity
wherein every particle of life
laughs to tears together
at fun that pokes no pain
into souls as shy as trilliums?

Creation as coordination
of every single speck of something
into the wild success of the project:
You
impossibly hard to wrap your head around
so try another bit with more give,
perhaps your heart--
you can’t make towels
out of coconuts.

What if, indeed, you belong?
Always did?
Always will?
Then pound your hand grenades
into fireworks and holler
¡FIESTA!
For nothing can separate you
from the gift of Earth
not even a weakened will to receive.

Just put the stick down
and stop seeing piñatas
in the darkness beneath the blindfold.
You’ll never smash your way
through to sweet.
If you dash the coconut
against the rock
you spill the precious water.