You keep hearing—
the gray light of sunrise
is far and away the
best kind of light. but you'll
never be able to say it
like that. For that matter,
what was it the fog rolling
in off lake Michigan
was trying to call out to you
this morning? What on earth
did the black coffee afterward
actually taste like?
So many things
you'll never be able to tell
that have to be told anyway.
It's just business is usually
how the businessmen put it.
This is the province of science
claims a dental hygienist.
But the poet says—maybe
this is just how it is. Maybe
you only have mixed feelings
about everything
because there's no such thing as
a pure one.
All you can say is—I love this
too, and wait around
for the emptiness, which
chokes closed the last
line of every poem
to rush in and confabulate
the rest of the details. Maybe it's
pure selfishness
which first drove the mute
soul to dream. Maybe
each new story that's told
is only there to help us
make sense of our own.
Maybe the stars are fading
because it's finally morning.
