Another Novena

Trying to remember,
when I die will there be doves?
The thick cloth covers me.
I remember the chocolate,
remarkable in the cup.
Everything seems beatitude.
Memory isn't film,
the various disappropriations
of day, hour, minute are
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,
the painted pony
rising and falling
with every breath
I am rehearsing the old song.