After a Late Afternoon Run in Thornrose Cemetery on the Last Day of March
I lie on my back on the eastern slope.
The clouds are close. Moving as if on an escalator.
When I get up, ten thousand blades of grass
do the same, rising slowly, bent in the middle
But straightening, unburdened.
Though the date has no meaning
for me, though I saw a man roadside
stand begging and suffering is unabated
among some I know there is peace
and among those lives which do not
touch mine one surely celebrates a birthday
one and another an anniversary this night
someone is suddenly a father another
a mother while one touches the last
page of a book and another wipes paint
from her hands. Though the date means nothing
to me those whose lives do not touch mine
are standing beside me in patience
and so to them I say in the darkness someone
you do not know wishes you well
with what magic is left to me I would know
all your names but then the magic of it
would dissolve like a date with no meaning