Ecstasy like awe hardly ever occurred,
though when it did it provided
its own definition. Still, I would prefer
an occasional bout of joy,
which I could recover from in a day
or so, and maybe even speak about,
whereas ecstasy (that one time)
made me silent, and awe was something
like Lazarus rising from the dead
and the populace uttering the equivalent
of “Holy shit,” then falling
to their knees in bewilderment.
A nice day was nice, too,
as was a beautiful disappointment—
like fog obscuring a sunrise
I’d set my alarm to see.
I’d even settle for an evening
of small talk and inappropriate snorts
and guffaws with friends I was sure
were otherwise capable
of high-mindedness and hilarity.
Even an awful day now and then serves
to warn us what’s out there, which doesn’t
help, because here it comes anyway.