Issue 100, Summer-Fall 1986
To let this bench hold my end up. Today
Of what my part was, brooding
Over the sum of things, there remains
Only the sum of things, and that part
Seems best. Yes this morning, whatever is
Will do nicely in my absence: this sunlight
Looks fine, it seems to be holding
Its own without me; the crowded sidewalk
Is fully employed, it appears its task
Has come to be child’s play; even the trees
Are doing well, they seem to be working
As well as trees can, as trees
These truly work, and the things they do
Are all nicely done. What a relief
To be wide awake, knowing my wakefulness
Doesn’t need me, sure that my bench exists.
Never doubting its existence beneath me, knowing
For sure that it is truly beneath me
To sit on a bench that I doubt exists.
How sweet to be fully alive, for just this morning
To have nothing to live for, to think well of my thought.
The way a child thinks of his childhood, the way that a tree
Makes do with its boughs, the way this moment lives
On what it’s seized in its hands, because this morning
What the moment has seized in its hands
Is sweet and alive, and this thought will do.
Will this thought do? It seems it’s already done so.
Will this thought do? Today there could be no doubt.
Will this thought do? Today beyond the shadow
Of a doubt my thought is done with
All the light I doubted, and now