Arise

Trying to remember,
when I die will there be doves?
The thick cloth is covering me.
I remember
the chocolate, remarkable in the cup.
Everything is beatitude.
Memory isn't film,
the various disappropriations
of day, hour, minute
catalogued, but not precise.
(I am) trying to remember
which experience awakened this need.
Which day did I telephone the saint.
When did I do that tarantella,
confusing each of you,
this feeling for that.
And this life seems only
time noticed, mercy spent.
Outside, an awful noise.

Arise asshole
shake the dirt from the box lid
you're kidding yourself again
this isn't the way out
just the usual awfulness
and you know it doesn't have to
be this way.

I am buying a ticket
for another ride on the carousel
another painted pony
rising and falling
with my breath