Friday, April 19, 2024


O, to just have faith 
enough to wake 

and stretch 
and dress and 

not with great 
exhilaration, but at least 

with nothing specific
to resist. 

How much of our 
art—how many poems 
have wished this? 

How many of their lines,
burning in their 

have yearned, 
like us, for this great 
and useless beauty—

for nothing like 
purpose, skill, or 

to be organized and cataloged 
by nothing but 
the date today,

and justified merely 
by declaring 
they exist?