Shundo David Haye

So whatever’s the opposite of a Buddhist that’s what I am.

Kindhearted, yes, but knee deep in existential gloom,

except when the fog smokes the bridges like this—

like, instead of being afraid we might juice ourselves up,

eh, like, might get kissed again? Dwelling in bones I go straight

through life, a sublime abundance—cherries, dog’s breath, the sun, then

(ouch) & all of us snuffed out. Dear one, what is waiting for us tonight,

nostalgia? the homes of childhood? oblivion? How we hate to go—

*

Sundays I spend feeling sorry for myself I’ve got a

knack for it I’m morbid, make the worst of any season

exclamation point       yet levity’s a liquor of sorts,

lowers us through life toward the terminus soon

extinguished       darling, the comfort is slight,

tucked in bed we search each other for some alternative—

oh let’s marvel at the world, the stroke and colors of it

now, while breathing.

(from the New Yorker)