Tuesday, January 1, 2019

MY CHILDREN ARE BEAUTIFUL

MY CHILDREN ARE BEAUTIFUL

My children are beautiful. What have I left them. My rage
lives in the screams of the Yonge Subway cars. 1967.

My dad died on the shores of Normandy. Then stood
up and walked home. Raised a family. Always looking back
over his shoulder.

Every generation regrets that it could not lead their children
to Eden. But there is no Paradise. That distant star
is closer than you can imagine.

My pets are beautiful. I wish I'd taught the dog to play
the guitar. I wished I'd gone out on a bender
with the cat. I wish that the options had
been success or failure.

None of it matters. All of it matters. What we are
looking for is already there.

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