We Say a Lot of Things

We like a taste of chaos –
enough, at least, to keep us
slightly on the brink,
and off. We like to think God
sometimes gets a cough.
We like to hate the thing we love.
We like to think that if a thing

delights a little, it is perfect;
if it delights a lot, it’s perfect;
if it does not delight at all,
we like to contemplate the gall
of anything that won’t delight!
We wrote a note to self
today, but put it on the shelf,

and let it macerate away in all
its juices. We think we’ve run out
of excuses. We think perhaps
that we should know we know
and know we don’t – both
deeply. We’ve climbed it both
ways, steeply. Tonight we have

to play the violin and then we’re
contemplating never playing it
again. We contemplate a lot.
(Our jacket has a spot.
Forgive us while we clean it.)
We say a lot of things.
We think we mean it.




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