You Were Asleep, That’s All

Everything thanks to everything
Else—how else can you put it well?

It slips up on you—you don’t feel
Ill anymore this afternoon.

There’s a moment when you’re surprised
To check for pangs but to find none.

And you were going to call it peace!
Suppose it is peace, after all.

The one well-being from other,
Do we, should we, really care which

Was felt first and by whom? It’s time
To commence our famous call.

They Were Good Then

First of all, they were good then.
Does that make them good enough

Now, as memories? Enough
For what? Other memories?

You’re judging the decisions
That led to those memories,

Memories merely outputs
From the system that would know

Itself but doesn’t, as yet,
Couldn’t. Your good memories—

You sort through them now, re-feel
Associations. How much

Do they gain or lose, sharing?
The second function. Can thought,

Whether what’s remembered was
Vicious or sweet at the time,

Offer you something could be
Used now? This has been good, now.

Fish Left Blue

An early 20th-century
Craftsman’s bungalow, floating in space,
Impossible flourish of simple

Surrealism, appeals to them.
There it glows on its own moonlit lawn,
Encircled by heavily leafed trees.

You imagine padding through the grass,
Barefoot underneath that summer moon,
All the shadows a silverfish blue.

Linear

Elinor Wylie emphasized

How years go by in single file,

An image tough to assize.

Are we seeing bipedal years,

Their heads conjured from calendars?

Are we seeing a cattle drive?

Could these be lobsters or angels

And across what kind of backdrop?

Anyway, what do years look like?

Maybe they smile in single file,

Or maybe they appear severe.

Can you picture years passing here?