It’s not just a choice between fire or ice,
between Bosch or Botticelli,
the bright eternity or the dark one.
There’s the eternity of unwritten
thank you notes and waiting on hold
for someone in India to straighten out
your Internet connection.
In front of poetry, a brick wall of prose.
Is it rumor? No, Pavarotti has died.
Finally you realize your teacher’s an animal too.
You wait for the elevator down
to the hospital cafeteria wondering
if anything will be different when you get back.
You staple color copies of your lost cat
with three phone numbers
to the telephone poles in the neighborhood.
Not even January, already you’ve shoveled
your driveway seven times. How long
does it take to learn how to fold
an origami rose? For a whole year
you said nothing about how you felt.
Then tequila goes round the fire
and after a swig, you’re supposed to admit
what you can’t live without.