But our trust in what they signify, these rites

That honor us as witnesses—whether to watch

Lovers swear loyalty in a careless world

Or a newborn washed with water and oil.

So praise to innocence—impulsive and evergreen—

And let the old be touched by youth’s

Wayward astonishment at learning something new,

And dream of a future so fitting and so just

That our desire will bring it into being.

THE SEVEN DEADLY SINS

Forget about the other six, says Pride.

They’re only using you.

Admittedly, Lust is a looker,

but you can do better.

And why do they keep bringing us

to this cheesy dive?

The food’s so bad that even Gluttony

can’t finish his meal.

Notice how Avarice

keeps refilling his glass

whenever he thinks we’re not looking,

while Envy eyes your plate.

Hell, we’re not even done, and Anger

is already arguing about the bill.

I’m the only one who

ever leaves a decent tip.

Let them all go, the losers!

It’s a relief to see Sloth’s

fat ass go out the door.

But stick around. I have a story

that not everyone appreciates—

about the special satisfaction

of staying on board as the last

grubby lifeboat pushes away.

DEAL WITH THE DEVIL

The bargain was that he would recollect

each moment of his life entirely—

every touch and taste, no detail lost.

The past would shine forth, not in blinding flashes

but meaningfully the way that music moves,

making a pattern out of every note.

The price was that he had a single year

to contemplate the secrets of his life

before the memories vanished utterly.

“It’s a fair deal,” the Devil said. “A life

in payment for a life. You won’t want more.

Trust me—for most lives, twice is once too often.”

“My friend, I’d have your soul in any case.

I’ve made this offer for my own amusement.

The artist is my favorite customer.”

Oddly enough, he did believe the demon.

What point was there revisiting the past?

Why enter that gray Garden of Medusa

To wander through its mute memorials?

Better to let the rain pit, and the years

Erode those granite visages. And yet …

He hungered for the stones of memory.

It was the pain itself that he was after

not to alleviate but to perfect—

The delectation of his own damnation—

to earn the blessings of oblivion.

Smiling at Lucifer, he signed his name.

MEDITATION ON A LINE FROM NOVALIS

Wo gehen wir denn hin? Immer nach Hause.

—NOVALIS

When his beloved Sophie died, Novalis

Lay by her grave and wept himself to sleep.

On the third night she met him in a dream.

He woke transformed, longing for the last trance,

“When sleep shall be without waking.” Therein,

Observed one critic, “lies his originality”—

Death was not tragedy but a romance.

Where are we going? Home, always back home.