Life is beautiful. He who reads that
As in the window of some distant, speeding train
Knows what he wants, and what will befall.
Then let yourself love all that you take delight in
Accept yourself whole, accept the heritage
That shaped you and is passed on from age to age
Down to your entity. Remain mysterious;
Rather than be pure, accept yourself as numerous.
There is the view that poetry should improve your life. I think people confuse it with the Salvation Army.
The gray glaze of the past attacks all know-how...
Expecting rain, the profile of a day Wears its soul like a hat.
Life is not at all what you might think it to be
A simple tale where each thing has its history
It's much more than its scuffle and anything goes
Both evil and good, subject to the same laws.
To the poet as a basement quilt, but perhaps To some reader a latticework of regrets.
The sun fades like the spreading
Of a peacock's tail, as though twilight
Might be read as a warning to those desperate
For easy solutions.
All beauty, resonance, integrity,
Exist by deprivation or logic
Of strange position.
This whole moment is the groin
Of a borborygmic giant who even now
Is rolling over on us in his sleep.
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