He was dying and I didn’t know it.
He was dying and the tests were inconclusive.
He was dying and I changed his diet.
He was dying and he couldn’t tell me.
He was dying and I dreamt of poplars shivering,
a tumor in their lungs.
He was dying and there was nothing more
they could do.
He died and I swept his fur from our house.
He is dead and the broom gathers dust, alone.
Ages ago I kept a diary in a hand legible to
none but me. I read it on my knees as just-fallen
rain clings to pinecones like wet feathers,
the evening slips into its velvet gown,
and starlight pitter-patters on my head
like drops of gallium. I am thankful
the day is dying, for I have forgotten how
to live. Who wrote those words belongs
to an empire that collapsed under its
own grandiose weight, its high priest
I was seventeen when I read Alan Watts’ The Way of Zen
a couple pages at a time, putting down the book to observe
sunset drape itself over my mind, falling asleep thinking
of not thinking, hearing a flock of birds and imagining myself
flapping against the sky and recalling that I am sky. Once,
the book well-thumbed and creased and read twice over,
I felt an ant crawl the length of my arm like a nagging
sense that
I am a foul weather friend, dear poetry.
I have paid you no mind when spring rains
wash clean the marble statues of gods
and a cheery sun
reads aloud your sweet inscriptions,
nor when awed children skip through museums,
nor accordion-song fills the subway,
nor a stranger does another stranger
a kindness,
nor blueberries are so ripe they bleed sugar,
nor velvet chocolate cake knocks you dizzy with love,
nor, after making love, my wife’s perfume
clings
