Like the Buddhist
I do not believe
in the afterlife
but on Sundays
When the bells ring
in the lonely town
of Leverett
And there are
Those I know
Burried nearby
I stop to hear
Not the dirge
of the dead
Though their names
Be in it
But rather
I would like to think
Our secret pond
That one time
You and I went
A car ride
For Chinese food
Or our beautiful walk
For coffee
The back and forth
Of me rocking you
And listening to
the shorter softer
Pearls of sound of breath.
Tell the shampoo girls
That Sundays are best
For pumpkins
And the horse face boy
Tuesday’s for thought
Monday’s monarch
Rests his mave
On noons moons
What days are left in
Leftovers Wednesday
Wire and Thursday’s
Mote. Fridays
Freelancing and
Saturday’s note.
How one returns from heaven or honey
It’s pains how sticky
the farmer, driving his empty
truck through the beautiful
maples of spring, never gets to the telling
of it. Especially as the sage sways
He never gets to the telling of it
Even the way you look up at me
Late in the evening right before sleep
With your eyes that I cannot read
In the gray blue essay of yours
knowing I do not stand a chance
In your ache
We cannot keep silent
We cannot keep silent
In hours and in days
How easy one cannot say
How one returns from heaven.
