After Ungaretti
For the sake of argument, which
is really all we have,
let’s acknowledge that we are variations
on next to nothing . . .
even if, for a minute to two, we agree
there’s a God out there
behind a madhouse of solar winds who
must be amused with
our befuddlement, moving the night around
behind a marquetry of light . . .
even if the poet is correct in saying that
the soul is used and foolish.
Like an arpeggio of clouds passing in front
of the moon, I believe
a fraction of what I’ve told myself, walking
on the edge of the earth,
edge of the sea. . . . The cemetery on the cliff
above holds the defeated
flowers, the souls who have lost their luster,
once as bright as rain. In all
the time I’ve sat here thinking, no one has
explained that—we go
toward the dark, an open door, the road mostly
behind us now . . . we go grey
as sand and cast no shadow. But please, go ahead,
take my seat, tell me what
you make of things from here—leaves, clouds, stars
all falling from the sky. . . .
