The Subtle Hell of It

Some people sweeten life –
they feel the swell of it and let it in.
I felt the subtle hell of it, I thought,
today, when I woke up and cupped
the flattened breasts of two small

sweat-damp feather pillows in my
hands as if they’d died – dead
from too much head. They seemed,
in fact, to have subsided toward
the end of pillow-hood. A fellow could,

I would suppose, do worse than I have
done: sustaining wonder at my sundry
stumblings into opportunities for fun
and sorrow, lust and art, evincing
fairly loving interest in varieties

of heart, and not entirely begrudged
expulsions of the substances
that kill and choke (no longer drink,
do drugs, or smoke): my curiosities
are generally fresh: my fascination

with the blunt enigmas of the flesh
do lively daily battle with the utter
foolish transport of the soul: I think
I’ve often filled the bowl: but I know
people who have sweetened life:

who take it whole and give it back
as if each brush with it were ecstasy.
Perplexed to see I couldn’t see,
today, I pushed the thing away.
It seems a reason one might pray.


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