O.K. Fine

Forgive us our happiness, forgive us

our wacky haircuts, the way we thirst for success

as TV evangelists and high school typing teachers,

letting the crow go silent for want of attention

to his dreary mystery, turning our backs to the sea

repeating unweariedly its one empty gesture.

Forgive us the way we inherited this hallowed ground

and set up a shop along the border, avoiding

the dank interior, the way we labor

instructing each other on proper storage

of household combustibles, swapping thoughts

on butter substitutes, wrench sets, sealants,

bleach-based smudge removers—all things solid

by which we’re comforted, the way we talk and talk and guard

our hearts, our pure and idiot middle, believing

life is a gift to earn by not letting on

our desire for it. This is O.K. This is fine.

We’re plenty astonished. Summer’s come, shuffling in

like a laid-off textile worker. Radio towers

rise like pines through the mist behind

the convenience store. Its white sign

stutters on as dawn arrives, tipping

its lavender hat, settling a light on each pelican

lawn ornament and pink concrete garden frog.

There’s always something. The frocked bishop wiggling, relieving

an itch. A doll’s arm gnawed by a dog at the edge

of the park. A wig in the road. We’re plenty astonished.