Let your laughter be full of illusions. Let the disappointments kiss you. Let the sky heal your boils. Let the silver liquid engine of rain drive you to the invisible distances between chair and wall, as the far-away ruins are one with us, who become bones and then bones that crumble to dust one day, for not even our bones and ashes will endure, but the far-flung hymn of the apple seed is the star in the center of that which believes itself to be a diamond.

And the crumbling bits of you will feed your specialness to grass. Let your life be wine poured out. Into everyone’s cup. Then you’ll find yourself a full cup. You’ll drink in the care with which you have watered the earth. The earth will be above your willing feet. But you be willing even when you can’t move in the world anymore.

Let the exiles in the photographs on the mantle bring you home. You will eat their spiced pears. You will take care of them. And build a bridge of violets with every word you speak. The laughter in the tea lines of your glass will be a horoscope of joy no man can read. The citadels will open through dark trees.

You’ll love your way through suns and moons till starlight and darkness are gone. And you will be the last peace dove to hang around when the world is bound to go. Let the love born of disappointment

fill your glass which is not magic but

only reflects your face.