At the end of the day, the pears will be ripe
and the horse I loved and died will float before me
in waves of growing beauty.
At the end, when all of this leaves and the nasty mothers
and nastier daughters delve into the tar pit
that closes overhead behind them, then I will breathe
an owl breath, still in my tranquil sky.
At the end, I will find you, thank you for this sick chaos -
myself, a garden, hit by a massive storm.
I will give life again to the little birds, insects that have no
use or concept of glory. I will return with you
to the Buddha waters, happy to know so much love.
I will walk out my door and there will be summer,
early summer, and you and I (though bruised and that much more
world-weary) will walk into the warmth:
ultimately loved, unequivocally whole.

After all these years
my wife at the ironing board,
perfect in panties.
and you may hear marching bands
that aren't playing anywhere close by,
but, faint as you might, hear
them the same 

and your head tells you
something is something worth
listening to 

even if you can't
hear it