Things work: the days grow cold,
buildings rise up and collapse, lust
seems a memory, then it returns.
Oh well, the day's yours--why not
make a small mess, a puddle of contrition
somewhere? Even birds stumble occasionally,
on a tricky branch, hidden from view.
And if it's ever marvelous
to have been born, why not today?
Yesterday, you were a moralist--
things seemed somber, judgmental. But
today you're heavenly, like sunrise:
everything you ever knew of good & evil
is just foam, now, in the steamed milk
that's the cloud cover over your cappuccino.
And, as for your childhood--well,
why not forget it? So, you were
miserable once. Wasn't everybody?
Today, there's frost on the windows,
the abandoned nests of birds
are vivid in the trees, waiting
to be identified. Silly boy, it's not
only Bach who wrote a Magnificat,
but everyone who can compose
out of the duff and detritus of his life
a single day, a karma realized,
a rapture of one's own.
MICHAEL BLUMENTHAL...
