for Andrew Mead

I am watching a moose ripple out of his antlers. 
I am watching Tollund Man, arm-in-arm 
with Judy Garland. I am trying to believe

implausible things: that we too will abdicate, 
spurn bone crowns, and turn tender; 
that we too—raised, wide-eyed—will skip

along gold roads. I am trying to trust 
that oldest rebuke, all things made new, 
beyond entropy. Above our urge to preserve.