Wednesday, January 29, 2020


A year or two ago, I unplugged 
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

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.