*Did I say the stars will take care of us? I know it sounds funny, but that’s the way it is.* John Ashbery, *The Seventh Chihuahua*
Why worry now? — Ocean’s edge is a wave
of absence. By forgetting where we were
and then remembering to face the sun
in serried ranks, like children, while the truth
spills out in spite of us, we get alloyed
blessings, all that’s bestowed on us is strewn,
not entirely carelessly, over sand.
I wish I’d been the first to think of it,
my idea:—coming back, but as a bird,
a modest one, a quiet one, whose sea
inspires awe without being over proud.
Do you believe in God, the agent asks,
in reincarnation, and in the soul?
Am I really the first she’s queried thus?
Equivocating, I invoke the bird
I shall become next time around, shout, Yes!
—a little doubtfully. The agent looks
surprised, and makes an entry in her book.
The burden of being perfectly in line
with all that might transpire, my angels home
for yet another holiday, is sweet.
Did I say agent? I meant angel. So,
the seasons’ first game’s still a week away.
Migrating birds are flying around today.
Over the city. Out over the Bay.
The traffic is enormous. Unhurt birds
hunt—maybe it’s haunt—all my wildest dreams.
Sucks when no one respects your running game.
That’s why I’m coming back a bird this time.
For Phoebe, Hart, and Anne
X.4.2013