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Now I let it fall back
in the grasses.
I hear you. I know
this life is hard now.
I know your days are precious
on this earth.
But what are you trying
to be free of?
The living? The miraculous
task of it?
Love is for the ones who love the work.
Used with the permission of the poet.
No, we are not going to die.
The sounds you hear
knocking the windows and chipping the paint
from the ceiling, that is a game
the world is playing.
Our task is to crouch in the dark as long as we can
and count the beats of our own hearts.
Good. Like that. Lay your hand
on my heart and I’ll lay mine on yours.
Which one of us wins
is the one who loves the game the most
while it lasts.
Yes, it is going to last.
You can use your ear instead of your hand.
Here, on my heart.
What if, after years
of trial,
a love should come
and lay a hand upon you
and say,
this late,
your life is not a crime
I, too, am tired of it. And yet, like an old love,
it comes to us, illuminating the bare walls
of our houses, catching its hems
on our thresholds, carrying its little cup of blossoms.
We are done with it.
Aren’t we done with it?
We have told ourselves
only grace can change us;
we have told ourselves
the craft is not the magic;
we have told ourselves
the myths are in our hands.
And yet, Issa wrote to us, and ever.
Let us walk out through the summer grass