We’re in hell, we’re all over,
No? said Borges, 82.
Yes, although heaven and hell
Vary greatly in each life.
Think of Borges, feted, loved,
And also elderly, blind,
But in what he called a kind
Of blue luminosity,
Longing for lost, deep scarlet.
Think of yourself, whoever
You are, at whatever node
On the hollow stem of life.
This poem is an exercise.
What is your daily heaven,
Median range? What is hell
In a given day for you?
Don’t apologize. Come back
To us years and years from now,
Come back to these lines and ask.
Poems aren’t your friends. We’re allies.
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