No doubt there were prophets in Pompeii who warned of the dangers of living under volcanoes, but it is doubtful whether even the pessimists among them actually expected the total and definitive obliteration of the city.
My son eats his lunch. Takes a picture
and emails me it like the guy I had
sex with a couple weeks ago sent
a friend in the City live details of
our realizing each other.
Constance Garnett sits in her garden
and scribbles War & Peace into English.
I brought the Great Crystal. Who
can lift it much less look into it? I emptied
your ashes into the beck. The river. The sea.
Don't speak. The still point is lost to words.
My head in your hands finds it in silence.
Japanese practice of repairing ceramics
with gold laced lacquer to illuminate the breakage
for days the path could easily be found in sleep
a lake speaks
each moment a flower in an undiscovered field
somehow an afternoon god in shattered sunshine
whose handsome fate
from time to time I grow tired of
then too what I like or dislike
here we are and it is wet
the path blocked
by scattered moonlight
trees prick the snow with shadow
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