It's not the first time we've bitten into a peach. But now at the same time it splits--half for each. Our "then" is inside its "now," its halved pit unfleshed-- what was refreshed. Two happinesses unfold from one joy, folioed. In a hotel room our moment lies with its ode inside, a red tinge, with a hinge.
A Face, a Cup
The thousand hairline cracks in an aged face
match the hairline cracks in an aged cup
and come from similar insults: careless, base
self-absorbed gestures from a younger face,
cruel and fine. Bang! Each disturbed trace
deepens to a visible crack. A break-up,
a mix-up, a wild mistake: these show in a face
like the hairline cracks in an ancient cup.
Neither wholly broken nor all used up
the cup becomes a visage, unstable.
One never knows what will crack it open
and finish it. Banged too hard on a table?
Yet happiness might crack a face open
in a better way: hairline tracery as laugh lines
releasing the joys of ancient thoughts
cupped into use, and suddenly able.