A Poem.



In order to be happy, you have to believe

that what is said to be the world is not complete.

The goldfish glaring in the sun, the rainbow seen

from the kitchen window–there is more,

there must be more.


But the frayed bath towel is just the kind of thing

that will be among the last things you see.

The eyes of your lover will not turn to stars.

You will ride in a car and use a can opener.

Do you not understand? The neighbor will have smoked

another menthol, and your inbox will still be spammed.


Brutal, the world’s lack of ceremony.

How difficult

to flip every morning to the last

half page of the book, and read it, wearily,

without enough comprehension

to keep from hurrying through

the inch of story

stacked between the end and us.

Your voice, in your head, tires you.


But the being next to you is reading

aloud in another language, the tones floating

up and down like a song that you know.

The song will end. The song will end.

When will it end? When will it end?




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