Happiness

There was a moment

before this moment

before this morning

before this day.

They pile up.

like silt, like snow, like sand.

And I could sift them

for the gifts and sorrows

as if the sum of life

was entries in a ledger

the red outnumbered

by the black.

Where would I account for

the pleasure of stroking red gold hair?

and the moonless hilltop

where I once screamed in despair?

or how I made art from garbage,

spent years allowing love to fade,

betrayed by lust.

more than once, I'm afraid.

Tried to capture life in silver crystal grains,

chased the empty cup,

dared to drink the water,

crossed the country on my thumb,

shed my fantasies

of nuclear devastation

saved by juvenile infatuation

between the legs of a german whore.

Saw death dim the eyes

of a comrade murdered.

His blood stained my jeans

where it trickled through my fingers.

I lost my faith in revolution

but not the rage.

Felt the animal in my soul

fly out through a saxophone

inchoate, raw and joyful,

now it hides in memory's garage.

I held a newborn girl,

a genius now at seven,

two days before the country

said yes to hope.

I fall asleep at eleven

almost always easily,

as reports of wars and weather

blend with my lover's gentle snores.