Rest
They seem anxious for being so sure
I’m too tired to think ahead like that anymore
Being on my way to someplace I already know
Because I saw some photographs in a magazine
Look at me, I know as much as my parents and
Wealthy college professors could show me
Whatever I lived in and whatever explanations
I was told to attribute my worship to
And what, exactly, they said will keep us
From being forgotten or being punished
As much as anybody knows anywhere
And less with each passing day, other than
How much I can gather from Brad’s footsteps
Upsetting the wood floors while I lay in my bed
The taste of coffee on a quiet morning at home
Different from its taste someplace else
The happiness of being with people, as Kafka put it
The way the song “Foreground” sounds on vinyl
And how the turntable sounds like rain
After the needle floats to the center
Laying half-conscious with the blinds closed,
I can almost convince myself that it is rain
The light coming in is still dampened by clouds
Dark and immense beings laying heavy and gorgeous
Like the indescribable feeling behind closed eyelids
When there are five more minutes to lay in tangled covers
Before you risk arriving late or at least unprepared
To wherever it is that you are supposed to be arriving
I’ll be here today
And, as far as I know, probably here tomorrow
Trying to get a handle on the way that I feel
And whether I need to worry about defining it
God we’re blessed with more richness than
We’ll ever know quite what to do with
Being so delightfully insignificant