what a cure for grief would come down to is
distraction, abrasive, too full music playing over
empty thoughts, absence of that
primal embrace

the knowledge that our lips are for kissing
our voices for singing
now they are for nothing
a hole into the void that is the body

sitting on my bed could be exciting
if only I had a view
of some picturesque scene,

the Appalachian mountains in my backyard,
great redwoods breathing and breathing and
creating atmosphere, thousands of tulips
dancing in the wind's warm breath

if only one thing could be perfect for me
if I could choose one flower
I want the rose

our lives are filled with fussing and tense
gripping anxiety about things that
will never happen
and when they do happen never matter

all that much,
we have all built a shrine to the past,
as Hafiz would say,
and the thing perhaps,
if happiness is the object,
is to stop being so religious like that