No kidding, and let me guess,
it’s later than I think?
Like I don’t know that.
Like I can’t see
the reciprocity of nature
in all its beginnings and endings,—
be it Buddhist or otherwise—
Like I didn’t notice the 13th century
Duomo in the piazza, the bell tower,
the cobble stone dust whirling
towards my face. Like I couldn’t tell you
that I am not exactly young
anymore, neither am I old. I will not be swept away
from parties to the barn. No more kissing
impromptu with you and you and you.
Last night, a woman in a movie,
learning that her father might die (sooner than later),
said, I can handle the fact that he’ll die. I just can’t handle
that it will be forever. I laughed out loud
and then burst into tears. I’d like to stop
weighing my options
as if I were the embodiment of discreet mathematics.
I’d like to stop sitting on the banks of the river Ganges,
half blind, attempting to solve the unknowns. I’d like to stop
appreciating my condition. Never mind—reprise the reprise.
Name your children after mystics if it makes you feel better.
Call it Belladonna or Deadly Nightshade—
the plant remains the same. We can’t help craving
euphemisms. It’s like Rome, only more familiar.