Another beautiful morning
of arrows and boleros

the sun burns outside and the breeze
bows gallantly through the window

cans scattered in the yard like some wedding car
crashed, need
to be crushed and cashed in
but I’ll water the tomatoes and call
it good.

I think I’m alive
what else could it be?

We are here to ignore the inevitable
we are here to vent the torrent of the centuries
and fan mosquitoes
and toe the line between oceans.

Another beautiful morning
of iced white wine
and nihilism
of memories like still-deaths
of cigarettes and sore bones and Mexico
whispering like an impossible past
of a soft Indian girl
with slender arms and heat-waves
in her eyes

another judgment-day singeing the edges
of the curtains
tinted with significance
and fat chance.

I peek out like a ground squirrel
chewing an icy nut
farther than I ever thought I’d get
from that iffy beginning.

Sometimes you go years thinking
all the good days are over
but then they come again

and they come with a vengeance.