Thursday, August 22, 2019


Try this—
place a good little
gift shop bouquet

of red local
flowers on the table
near the window

in their
hospital room at
the right time of day—

then watch
for a minute (though they
aren't awake)

the auroras cascade:
the amaranthine import
of Art itself

flooding in
to drench the tedious
and inconsequential,

the antiseptic gray
space in which Commonplace
necessarily exists—

and then come
home and tell me
you still don't know

what forever
is, or today
was for.