JOY OF COOKING
the last line is often the hardest
unless it writes itself
at which point darkness
has its little moment in the sun
and then it’s closing time at the end of history
approximately
which is to say there is an opening
and then it closes
forever and a moment
mortality grips us with mortality tongs
here a pinch of compassion
there a yelp of suffering so close
to the cries of birth
or desire coming through the light
with eyes closed
one must take to heart the joy
of cooking and keep in mind
the mixed blessing in forgetting
which creates each new day
by stirring up old souls in new bodies
or vice versa and venturing forth
as the crow flies past our vision
into the ineffable
there is strange consolation in knowing
that what we know will never be enough
to silence the enigma at our core
and that in time we may be asked to revere
that about which we know nothing
still there is always the next something
to distract us like a gray tilted fedora
in a window or the last line of a poem
which is often the hardest
unless it writes itself