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What if, after years
of trial,
a love should come
and lay a hand upon you
and say,
this late,
your life is not a crime
From The Last Song of the World (BOA Editions, 2024) by Joseph Fasano. Copyright © 2024 by Joseph Fasano. Used with the permission of the author and publisher.
Now I let it fall back
in the grasses.
I hear you. I know
this life is hard now.
I know your days are precious
on this earth.
But what are you trying
to be free of?
The living? The miraculous
task of it?
Love is for the ones who love the work.
I, too, am tired of it. And yet, like an old love,
it comes to us, illuminating the bare walls
of our houses, catching its hems
on our thresholds, carrying its little cup of blossoms.
We are done with it.
Aren’t we done with it?
We have told ourselves
only grace can change us;
we have told ourselves
the craft is not the magic;
we have told ourselves
the myths are in our hands.
And yet, Issa wrote to us, and ever.
Let us walk out through the summer grass
Nec vitia nostra nec remedia pati possumus
– Livy