Tender and mild is
the forecast tonight, incongruous
the amenity and abundance
now inhabiting
even the sparest interior spaces.
So this is where
all of your hope
and fear, your greed for knowledge,
your hoards of experience
have finally dropped you
off and left you—so undeserving,
with nothing at all solved,
resolved, or discovered—
delirious swirls of wan light,
gentle words, simple strains
of music repeating: all falling now,
less like snow
than the oils of anointing
on your brow. You could never
have earned such a blessing—
such a preposterous invitation,
so very near the end
of everything—to stay
just as you are a little longer.
