HOPE IS NOT FAITH BUT ASPARAGUS
Most beautiful of things I leave is sunlight.
Then comes glazing stars and the moon’s face,
then ripe cucumbers and apples and pears
--Praxila (c. 450 B.C. E.)
Hope is asparagus and mango on
wild salmon; sex in a
Summer floats us childlike from reindeer dawn
into white nights. The free blue mountains, bored
with solitude and snow, take off their mist
and dance for huge-eyed fish. Ignorant faith
smells good with cheese. The
circling the bloody stone, their joyous wrath
set to be fed on an old chopped-up corpse.
I lacked the eyes to feast on nature’s mad
crude sky-burial holiness and stayed
back in my room to swish sad-
ness down the sink. Asparagus and lox
bloat me. Hope is Sicilian marmalade.