Thursday, May 16, 2024


At some point, 
it's alright to call it 
a night—

to tan 
for ten-to-twenty 
in front of the TV, 

to give those ropy 
muscles an 
Epsom salt soak, 

to raise your palms 
and kiss 
each majestic, 

and mountainous peak 
of their blisters. 
It's no joke 

to do the easy thing 
and cue up some music 
you already know, 

light a few candles 
and keep repeating 
as they glow 

that greatness 
is transient, 
and sometimes 

genius is 
ad-hoc—that even 
the illimitable 

Johann Sebastian Bach, 
despite all his leaps 
toward the glory 

of God, still would fall
back on the same 
dozen notes.