The Moor Simply Is

Take this moor.

It couldn't care less…
Because it doesn't care at all.
Only humans care.

It doesn't care about the Real.
What should always be. 
Or what is truly the case.
It keeps a perfect silence on the Big Issues.

The moor is what it is - nothing more, nothing less.
There's nothing more for it to be.
The moor isn't even a being.
It's a bag of many things - that's what it is.
A bag of pure particulars.
And what it is, ignores what we think…
No! It neither ignores nor notes.
It is distanced from those dissecting minds
Which try to place it in its proper place -
As if a sweet and lovely garden.
Yes, gardens live off their spectating fans.
And, like gardeners, we too try hard 
To make sense of the autonomous things 
Which thoughtlessly clutter up our world.

That's what we do - we impose silly visions 
On the mindless things which plague our minds;
But which still don't need us - 
Because they don't need at all!

With the taught things that are our categories,
We make up this world. 
We choke a stream here, a curlew there, 
With a snooty poetics we believe superior 
To those streams and curlews
Existing free of our spectating minds –
Minds that would, again, put them in their place. 

The rapacious alter that is man's ego.

Yes; even those who sing let it be 
Force their own categories, tight and taught,
On a unclassed, unsliced world…
As I have done, just now, 
In this very poem.