One day we will lay it down. We will let it go
like a never-washed blanket from childhood,
and whatever we are, whatever we believe we are,
that’s what we hope we will be.
Let the metaphors come to an end. Let the heart stop
sounding like hooves in the desert. Let the stomach
quit rising into the chest. Let autumn stop coming
to remind us of the loves we have lost.
We’re tired. We don’t want to live anymore
as if looking backwards through a telescope
where land and sea and sky are too small
to distinguish. Liars! We will not believe
nothing calls out with greater strength or clarity
than the wooden bell that announces our lives now.