October and other immortal things born tomorrow
forebode gently, with no great malice or urgency
floating and lazing to the gulf of the womb.
Have you ever seen a horse born? She slops out
the mare, hurling down with a great SHLAHP
(one thinks of a Roaring Springs Go-Go Blast
waterslide) all knuckle, knobble, knock, and
begins to stand right away. Shaky, but fast.
And we, with our own short lives predestined to expire
have a surprisingly long and risky labor, for a chimp,
and even more time is wasted afterward learning
calculus, or religion, or other dogmas of enduring worship.
But October, sauntering sophisticate,
calls back summer, to visit a day,
then returning the cold front, a crisp windy tease,
then heat, retreating to her chamber a week.
So relieved we are when at last summer bays
when orange debutante bows graceful the stage,
with one great, anticipated flourish. Because
she has done all this before. Rascal!
So what? So what if I’m in a hurry? What if
I can’t smell the roses? They are withering too.
We’re all on our way and there actually is time to lose.
Not much, but just enough to whet
a tinder to flame and why
shouldn’t I love you too much too fast?
I am already dying. I will not be back.
Who really gives a fuck about October and
other immortal things that are not yet born?
The horse is already adolescent from
the beginning of this poem.
She began running long, long ago,
and I should have known that her neonate’s
instinct was some kind of ancient wisdom.
She’s running and running and running so fast
her heat is wicking her sweat as soon as
it pushes through her soft, brown fur.
Why is it better to last than to burn?