To Praise

To praise

*After Maurice Riordan

Of all colors, indigo, how its longing fathoms takes you under.

Of all sights, the untrammeled slope, white after white.

Of all instruments, the weathered voice.

Of all smells, rain on tarmac. Of all surfaces, fur. Of sounds, flags flapping in the wind.

Of all worrisome vices, online shopping. Of all necessary vices, coffee at dawn.

Of solitary vices, nose picking and unencumbered farts.

Of grooming indignities, the anus waxing.

Of all my travels, A-306 Satsang Bhavan, Lucknow. Of recent travel, I-25 to Taos.

Of gurus, the one who makes the mind quiet in his presence. Of positions, the 69.

Of coital pleasures, the afterglow of emptiness.

Of après ski libations, the Bloody Mary. Of reasons to have kids, lineage healing.

Of the fruits, the palisade peach, yellow made edible. Of snacks, fresh popped popcorn.

Of all tech glitches, the unremembered password.

Of shocks, Lina’s sudden death. Of wake-up calls, the same.

Of desires, the intense desire for freedom.

Of dreams, the one paddling upriver to source. Of modes of transport, canoe.

Of all the heaven on earths, the red-rimmed canyons with their ochre light.

Of domestic pleasures, the fresh made bed. Of all dogs, the elusive Yorkipoo.

Of all the alls, the end-all and be-all. Of the plagues, darkness.

Of buildings, adobe. Of shames, the one never told.

Of satisfying chores, the toilet bowl. Of doors to the temple, stillness.

Of teas, green grassy matcha.

Of angels of the get through, Eben Grace.

Of the feral delights, the skinny dip.

Of memories, your mother’s cold, cold fingertips.

Of all things carried, the doubt that you are loved.

Of all replies, the unequivocal yes. Of all limits, beauty and terror.

Of all games, the game of time. Of all aches, the ache to come home.

Of all comforts, to watch something sleep. Of all the work of poets, to praise.

—Elizabeth Marglin