Like
trying to plow
mud in a logging truck –
half a freeze – enough to make sure
not one tiny moment of it will be
easy. “I Love Lucy” plays
all day as if to say
that no one ever
dies. Nothing
gets a rise,
however:
you
are
in
a
rhinovirus
of a Universe
today.
And
yet
the brand
new moments
come and go and go
and come no less or more
than any one of them has ever
come or gone before. All adds
to the lore: and worth a poem:
face yourself with that. No
miracle exists beyond
the fat persistence
of what is: what
other could
there
be?
Hard
to top infinity.
But please pass
me a tissue.
Sneezing
is
the issue.
.
.
.
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