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Poem	The reason to be autonomous is to stand there, a cleared instrument, ready to act, to search the moral realm and actual conditions for what needs to be done and to do it: fine, the best, if it works out, but if, like a gun, it comes in handy to the wrong choice, why then you see the danger in the effective: better then an autonomy that stands and looks about, negotiating nothing, the supreme indifferences: is anything to be gained where as much is lost: and if for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction has the loss been researched equally with the gain: you can see how the milling actions of millions could come to a buzzard-like glide as from a coincidental, warm bottom of water stuck between chilled peaks: it is not so easy to say, OK, go on out and act: who, doing what, to what or whom: just a minute: should the bunker be bombed (if it stores gas): should all the rattlers die just because they rattle: if I hear the young gentleman vomiter roaring down the hall in the men's room, should I go and inquire of him, reducing him to my care: no wonder the great sayers (who say nothing) sit about in inaccessible states of mind: no wonder still wisdom and catatonia appear to exchange places occasionally: but if anything were easy, our easy choices soon would carry away our ignorance with the world-better let the mixed-up mix and let the surface shine with all the possibilities, each in itself.
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