When, in the incongruously broad
brimming Wednesday
morning daylight,
dozens or hundreds or
thousands or more
of disparate pairs
of the puffy solicitous
eyes you'll encounter
might start to beleaguer—
Is it possible the song
that America is singing
is wrong?
What good are so many verses
which don't rhyme
and lack a chorus?
Can it be that the whole world
is such a less kind place
than it was yesterday?—
may these few short lines exist here
so that you never squander
a moment before responding:
such a deficit
of energy is
impossible.
Mildness on earth will never
lessen, for I alone
shall make up the difference.
Day after day,
as before
I'll keep singing,
articulating, albeit with a
melancholy tongue,
the great mystery
of—how it can be
that even melancholia
is a warm feeling,
since—to be truly
sad, or angry,
or afraid
posits, at its
center, an illimitable
relation to all others.