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.
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?