How could I not live in this world where I speak to the dead

How could I not live in this world

where I speak to the dead and

they speak to me, and intercede –

if I would, if I pray –

even if I never knew them?

 

How could I not sign on for angels

and parted seas and tents in the desert,

and the last prophet who was the greatest,

but less than every child still to come?

 

How could I not want every chance repeatedly

to see and forgive – to tap out deeds of love

and be propped up – to pick up my mat and

soar, dammit, in a sky of mercy?!

 

I could not not turn to you

or live in any other world.

This is the world,

and I claim it.

Ode to Willy Loman

Oh, we’ll fix the car and the shower –

the car that lurches, the shower that leaks –

and clean up the piles

of crap we don’t need.

And I’ll remember my wallet

before I bike to the station,

and my hat won’t be lost

for the twenty-third time.

But and yet still

thy will

won’t be in any of it

(or will) as trains pass

and doors close

and faces watch

the city aglow.