Yes, yes.

I am not suicidal at all, not at all.

I am quite enjoying this bench, this cooling coffee.

The sky is a wonderful roil of rippled cumulus

and the water of the harbor ripples likewise:

legion of fish scale.

Every thing so similar and yet each has its qualities.

I for example am like that boiling cloud of seagulls,

a whirl of birds for food and sex I assume comes into play.

That light pole too; most people probably don’t see

the slight wobble.

But of course I am fine. This is not a cry for help.

Most poems don’t get read till the poet is dead anyway.

This is simply how I enjoy my afternoon:

not going into The Visionary Art Museum before it rains;

exploring my pains, my deep, unique, necessary pains.

I see a silent father with his silent boy, adorable dogs,

a very natural meeting of a young excited comfortable couple.

I suppose none of them are thinking about their heart exploding,

that seeing each other is nice, gives a sense of community, humanity.

Oh that was a nice face!

Maybe I’d be happy if I loved that face, if that face loved me.

Oh it’s gone and God with it.

Here I am in purgatory lush with concrete and mostly happy people.

Are people mostly happy? Mostly unhappy?

How would that information help me?

The flags are whipping madly.

They will continue whipping madly for the rest of the day

because rain is coming.

They will whip and rip forever and ever

because rain is coming to the land of the dead.

Rain is coming, full of beauty and Jesus

and the reincarnations of millions of animal souls.

The wind, which will never stop—things will blow around elsewhere

after our planet is exploded unless we’re considering heat death

and what happens after that—

the wind which will never stop

tongues a message into my ear: you must live, you must live.

A shower of leaves carried on the wind rattles die die die

and the puppies and cyclists and volleyball players are so over-dramatic:

death is never the answer

but it is an interesting question

because though the leaves are dead the wind catches them

to swirl and skitter, making me turn.