Sunday, May 15, 2011


You know a fine day when it happens. For example the trill

of that tentative squint on an unusually bright morning,

when you suddenly remember the window shutters. Done for.

Also, at the local supermarket, trying to straighten out

the list, you seem like a regular guy. Nothing fancy

but the need to figure out which onions—size, skin,

whatnot. And you forego the memory of the octogenarian

you saw on television, wearing skimpy clothing and doing

cartwheels, like there’s a lot to hope for suddenly, like

you’re learning anew the sections of a small room,

and the round bulbs on the kitchen table,

little light left, the night coming.