A Prophecy

This morning, the windowsill full

of roly polies, those little military vehicles,

who’ve assumed, even in death,

their most defensive pose. You can try to change, the man

on the meditation app says, the world,

but it’s much easier to change your mind. I study its armor

of small curved plates, their ingenious overlap.

Each, in its sphere, guards itself.

Last night, a possum, comatose in the garden.

Stiff, it can suffer in this state

no pain. This is essential. The dog, baffled.

Un-numbed, unharmed, the possum

ambled down the alley hours later. The world,

disinterested in itself, turns its attention

to my mind.