We write sad lyrics to falling snow
never to precipitation ascending.
Knowledge builds up in the first half of life
then never-ending evaporation.
The season is not a quarter of a year
our mood will last until it is dissipated.
We click on buttons or cross off dates
then we sit on a porch intoxicated.
His sister is the one everyone worries about
at least she has two daughters with babies.
In the rundown house he has two daughters too
both of them are himself.
Most of the people in the mundane world
love the lyrics of the many rebel poets.
Spicy revolution sliced up and stirred
as background music to the daily routine.
Most of the people in the intellectual elite
repeat what they wrote in journals at eighteen
as impolite as they felt toward their parents
as warmly irrelevant as poutine.
Between twenty and forty I lived a life
I wouldn’t have wished on anybody else
but who am I to reject my self and my
trip down the river and out to sea?
Daughters and sons. Listen to me.
Snow is drifting down here
like sugar into champagne
white like forgiveness.