There should be some different word, other than “grey,” for those luminous blue-white skies that come with the rain here. It rains here.

I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.

In math we talked about infinity;
About how we don’t take it to mean eternity, not really–
Eternity is a concept we couldn’t use, not really (it’s empty for us,
meager finite things)–
To say a thing is infinite is only to say
That as far as I know
And as far as I can see,
As far as I can imagine
Its extension is endless;
And so I use the indeterminate
Like the infinite
For my own purposes.

You are bone of my bones
And flesh of my flesh.
These bones,
This flesh,
These moments.
Those eyes.
These skies.

Science has assured me
There are colors I cannot see
And sounds that I cannot hear
And that electrons behave differently
When they are watched,
In the way children, conscious of an audience,
Will speak loudly and formally
To themselves.

Lately the expression “divine mystery”
Has been on my mind and in my heart and
Sheepishly off my lips;
I have given up.
This is to say,
A divine mystery
Is recognition
Of my own defeat.

A divine mystery
Is my own willingness
To admit
That I do not know,
And I cannot see
Those things
That I can barely imagine.

He who has ears, let him hear.

I look
As far into this indeterminate space
As I can get my head around,
My eyes around,
My arms around,
And still I do not see.
I do not touch
I do not know.
Those things we call divine mysteries
Are those places
Those ideas
Those elusive, illusive noumena
That stretch on and on
Anything I could imagine.

We call them mysteries
Because we believe,
Despite this,
They can be known.
And we call them divine
Because the human mind
Will live and decay
Before we can understand.

I used to write stories.
I used to read books.
I never used to cry.

The white of the sky
And the yellow leaves
Still in trees
Press against each other.


We are all doing
Everything we can
To exist endlessly
Until we end.

I can forgive anyone anything
Anything done to me,
Anything left out,
And I do it with my whole self.
Because I admire that they are still going on.
Because I really truly don’t understand anymore
What it might mean
To keep going.

I am convinced now
That home does not exist,
Or not once you leave it the first time.

A friend who is always so literal
Said to me once:
If home is where the heart is,
Are you not always at home-
Your heart being, as it is,
Necessary for your ongoing existence
as a human organism?

And I said, a little astonished,
A while later,
Yes, exactly.

We carry our homes in our selves.
They stay in fragments inside of us,
Necessary, absolutely fundamental,
To our human existence.

After a while, everything ends.

As far as I know,
As far as I can feel sure of.)