five cards
for GW
Who dealt this? And you’re sure you shuffled? Well
there’s always hope — until you cut and draw
the very worst of all cards possible.
I guess I’ll count to see if I still have
five cards, and thank my lucky stars for that.
for GW
Who dealt this? And you’re sure you shuffled? Well
there’s always hope — until you cut and draw
the very worst of all cards possible.
I guess I’ll count to see if I still have
five cards, and thank my lucky stars for that.
Genius, invention, and leisure for me;
Mind–numbing, backbreaking labor for thee.
I’ve put in patent papers for a new
device that measures feeling in the hu–
–man heart. In fact you’re holding it right now.
Give it to someone, tell them to look down
and read it: You are beautiful. You look
good in those clothes. You’ve got great taste in books.
I think you’re nice and like to spend my time
with you. So. Did they straighten up and smile
a little, secretly, all to themselves?
By that one indication you can tell
they have a heart & soul & sense of humor.
Don’t worry if they didn’t, though: there’s error.
It’s more accurate than you would think,
but I am still working out some kinks…
Mordant. Descent. So heartbreak, even then,
Was known to him. When Bach returned on foot
From Lübeck, all he said was he had been
To the north to learn a thing or two
About his art. He didn’t say how long
Of those four months he walked beside the same
Slow river while imagining a song
With current broad and strong enough to blame
His fear for life on. Or, when nighttime fell
In moonlit rivulets, how long he tried
To sleep and dream of nothing else but home
Before new harmonies of grief would swell,
Surrounding him where he lay, a hundred miles
In every way from everything he’d known.
Because I like pain and suffering, that’s why.
I like sitting alone with my thoughts and my
small hungers and my fears. For like two minutes,
anyway, and then to leave them in exhaust.
I like knowing that there’s more to this city
than I know. I like the desolation, too:
the way St. Paul’s carillon sounds in the long
empty street, how the world sighs because it’s Lent.
Why ride the bus? Because it’s cheap, and I like
thinking of all of the lives I would lead if
I lived up the hill, what I’d do if it rained.
Easy in the flight of hindsight
Knowing which winds blow a true spring
And (take this one) which winds outright
Lie. I think it was misleading,
Robin, for the day to start with
Gentle rains and warming southerlies.
Time itself, so pleased to be in
On the joke, had woken early,
Sending cloudy covers flying
Back across the unmade sky, its
Shadow stretching in the morning
Light. We always knew a free gift
Is a gift but rarely given.
Still, you have your red puff–chested
Dignity. When the weather changes,
We must bundle up and bear it.