There will be enlightenment,
cold berries which make my teeth ache,
a dark cat stalking a lethargic wasp.
I wonder sometimes what it is to be happy.
It must be forest-hued, or honied, or polished.
It must be something I’ve noticed flickering
at the boundary of my vision, and when I turn
towards it I see December and its many clouds.
What if I told you that even
the rosebushes—innocent, taking such
small breathes—even they hurt me?
That everything mesmerizing and soft guides
me to an edge, snowless.