Eventually,
it must be alright.
It's got to be
possible—
to call it a night,
to lift up
and kiss
each majestic peak
of these blisters,
to tan
for ten to twenty
in front of the television,
to give
each bulbous blue
moon of a brain lobe
an honest-
to-goodness
epsom salt soak.
At last, it must be
the right thing
because it's
the same thing,
the real thing,
the honest thing.
A little light
music—or perhaps
no sound
would be more
appropriate—
to accompany
empty feeling drifting,
knots of gray
wet rope untying.
God knows—
even J.S. Bach,
for all his leaping,
kept falling
back on
the same dozen notes.
