The pain so real persists even now as you sit
to write its obituary. Delighted by some piece
of life's beauty you laugh aloud and reach for
the sweeper to sweep up and letting your eye
fall away just a flicker for the delight you jam
your thumb between the refrigerator and the wall
where the sweeper still sits and sits so still now
because beyond your reach, as the very object of
your eye's craving too has escaped your memory.
Life hurts and, what's more, delights.
