Nothing on my mind tonght
except my delicious engagement
with the world and the taste of it
that is not at all ashes on my lips.
The breath of it, tornadic
or whisper-easy.  How like
the first post-virginal ecstatic sleep
each night might feel, and how like
the morning a death sentence is stayed
each awakening might feel.
If only I can remain forever ready to receive
and then either decode, or allow for, a mystery.

Ask the question “what do you want
from life?” often enough and the answer
becomes an obvious, delighted hysteria
that anyone could feel a need to ask.
Of course, what I want from life
is to be alive until it’s more right
that I be dead, at which point
I will be dead.  That’s not tragic at all;
that’s just good planning on the part
of the universe — sensible rotation,
making room.

So then: deep into the delicious,
another long night of pain translated
into driven, careful craft and effort.
Right now, I could make love
or war or art or create
great silliness to mask profundity,
might even be (best of all)
profound
and dead serious, or (best of all)
might end up laughing
with comrades on my arms — or (best of all)
fall back asleep and exhausted
after accomplishing nothing of value
but a good attempt
with nothing except
the taste
of that delicious engagement
to share with the world.