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When I remember all that strange activity,
The ritual sacrifice, the professional sports,
Checking the mail several times a day, it occurs.

I am excited to be the problem with exuberance
In art, it wakes up a drawbridgekeeper
Grinding his teeth at a dreamed light house man,

His father. (In fact his father made an art
Of being on the verge of fame his whole life.
Another time I'll saw you some diphthongs

Of exposition on said story.) Our lives,
How lucky they are to have us living them.
Likewise the shadows, the ingrates.