even the radio; all those small
pleasures of yesterday
now a thousand routine hurts—
like a mild allergy, another aunt
dead, a trick hip—impossible to forget
yet
simple enough
to live with.
A quiet life is one
in which the joyous things
are the moments that ask for nothing—
they don't even remind:
If I had cared more,
would I have fared even worse?
This is called grace. This silence
is a mercy—
anything's possible
is an incantation rattled-off by
astrologists any mystics.
If anything,
the reverse:
obviously, this is not
where I hoped
I'd be—but it works.
