The motorbike putt-putts,
diminishing in the afternoon.
The woman sings
from the comfort of a radio.
The ship turns slowly,
slowly on the tide.
All is well.
All is always, always well.
* * *
THE MOMENT
Because we can
from time we borrow
tethered joy
from tomorrow
I know that bliss
is only this—
and sweeting always
such part sorrow