Wednesday, August 25, 2010

93. I Don’t Know What It Is

Kinder and singing towards the hook,
the chill of late August is a hint,

coming around the last bend of Alaska,
accumulations of accumulations of

memories like grandchild followed
by grandchild, and the hope of

moving from place to desired place,
in the sequence of a life not

imagined but lived, the liquid of it
its necessary unpredictability,

you had an eye on it, like medium rare
lamb and baby potatoes, all the

young things we eat to keep
from growing old or away,

disappointments in a narrow band
of a broad life are enough to bear,

yet not each life is broad, and sometimes
the disappointments are the bulk

of living and letting, and letting go
is the only option, but these have

passed you as you have passed on
to that second life, full of wanting’s

reward, waiting’s replaced, and every
morning is a gift of light and warm,

to the right degree, a birthday for
a woman whose months multiplied

by her days are her months, in number,
a numerological charm guaranteeing

your life and pleasure, the speed
of getting to the speed of wanting,

and the long gaze at the landscape
of land and sky or a baby’s eyes

seeing what it doesn’t yet know it sees,
yet showing all you’ll ever want to see,

the deep blue an eye begins with,
color of the sea a ship’s prows

parts to give the vessel such sights
as every tourist takes and every

eye desires, but it is the time,
not the sight, or if the sight

then the sight and the scent,
and the sound and the taste

of the food and the touch and
the time of it that makes any

experience worth the waiting of
a life out, across, but never through

to see what you might only once
see but will hold with you as

a passport to another country
you will never visit again, even

if your own, even if your own
town, for every experience

is a flowing moment away
from you just as a tiny

grandchild suddenly
grows to a man who

recalls his grandma
smiling at him but

the rest is dim
because she is

whispering now
into his ear

and singing a
a scrap of a

forgotten
song.

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