in search of

It smells of perfume and the heater is blowing when I wake.

The dark varnished foorboards are cold

and the house is empty save for paul’s coughing.

Outside, cherry blossoms line the edges of the street,

dropped in the near freezing over the night.

Jung tells us it is respectable to imitate Him

But harder still to live the life of our beliefs in the way that he lived his.

I am practicing prayer on a cold spring morning out on the roof,

Holding nothing for granted.

I work 12 hours carrying food and drinks, paid borrowed

Money on borrowed time, rewarding luxury

For positioning and caught somewhere above the middle rung

For an unexpected 44. With a tray of drinks,

Leaning over a black metal chair to press the elevator button

With my elbow, I blink in the buzzing silence.

“where is spirit here?”

Here the talk of children and 5 years from now rings true.

Here there are whisperings of abstract portraits and band practice,

Of parties and vacations.

Something sacred hums through these bodies, I feel it

When I hold them close.

I bike home and the air is cool, darkness settles over reflective puddles,

And the tires spray a dirty mist behind them in an attempt at history.

What dull, heavy truths lie beneath these vinyl coverings,

What strange conjurations of meaning support the fabric of these lives?

Storms take a deep breath and so do I, cordially inviting the leaves I know are green,

The 2x4’s that make up the raised beds at the neighbors; we can

Reprioritize, we can sip wonder at any moment.

I am beginning to play with the veil rather than let it cover my eyes.

Is that the beginning of a solution?

5 years ago he went to jail, how long before that was he still a kid?

2? 3?

I drove him to the same house he grew up in on Delancey,

where his girlfriend waited outside.

Something weary speaks out of him, but his smile is young and unsure.

He has other people make the drops now.

If I go out for drinks later, I should give him a call.