If there’s one true thing, it’s that 
Google will make money off us no matter what. 
If we want to know 
what percentage of America is white 
(as it seems we do) 
what percentage of the population is gay 
(as it seems we do) 
what percentage of the earth is water: 
the engine is ready for our desire. 
The urgent snow is everywhere
is a line by Edna St. Vincent Millay, and 
many have asked, apparently, 
where am I right now. Also 
when will I die. Do you love me 
may be up there, generating 
high cost-per-click, but not 
as high as how to make pancakes, 
what time is it in California. 
So many things I wanted to ask you, 
now that you’re gone, and your texts 
bounce back to me 
undeliverable. Praise to 
the goddess of the internet search, who returns 
with her basket of grain, 
67,000 helpful suggestions
to everything we request: 
how to solve a Rubik’s Cube, 
what to do when you’re bored, 
how old is the earth, 
how to clear cache, 
what animal am I, 
why do we dream, 
where are you now, come back.

Copyright © 2018 by Rachel Richardson. Originally published in Poem-a-Day on June 15, 2018, by the Academy of American Poets.


           At first when you leave town,

the dog and I maintain dignified silence.
           After no more than two hours
I’m talking to her, after three
           she’s telling me the story of her life.
I nod my head at every word,
           encouraging her
to take all the time she needs



           I have the vice

of courting poems.
           Pathetic, I know.
I also like to watch Oprah
           if no one is around to notice.
That’s right,
           I court poems, I watch Oprah,
I even let out wordless sighs late at night,
           and call them
my spring fields ploughed, my ready earth.



           Sitting quietly at dusk, I'll admit

my life goes like this:
           dark branches
scratching the still darker window.



           “How are you?”

I ask a woman at work.
           “I have no idea,”
she replies,
           sounding pleased with herself
at the heartfeltness
           of her own bewilderment.



           We don’t know,

can’t possibly know,
           never have known,
never will know.
           We just don’t know.

Copyright © 2014 Jim Moore. This poem originally appeared in Underground: New and Selected Poems (Graywolf Press, 2014). Used with permission of the author.