habit’s fine dust chokes us

What rots it is taking
for granted. To assume what
is given you is laid on like the water
that rushes from the faucet singing
when you turn on the tap. Wait
till the reservoir goes dry
to learn how precious are those
clear diamond drops.

We hunt our lovers like deer
through the thorny thickets and after
we have caught love we start
eating it to the bone.
We use it up in hamburgers
complaining of monotony.
We walk all over the common miracles
without bothering to wipe our feet.
Then we wonder why we need more
and more salt to taste our food.

My old man, my old lady, my
ball and chain: listen, even the cat
you found starving in the alley
who purrs you to sleep dancing
with kneading paws in your hair
will vanish if your heart closes its fist.

Habit’s fine dust chokes us.
As in a city the streetlights
and neon signs prevent us from viewing
the stars, so the casual noise, the smoke
of ego turning over its engine blinds
us till we can no longer see past
our minor needs to the major constellations
of the ram, the hunter, the swan
that guide our finite gaze
through the infinite dark.

[Marge Piercy {1936- } 'A Key to Common Lethal Fungi', from The Hunger Moon: New and Selected Poems 1980-2010]