THE LIVES OF THE OPTIMISTS

So the jonquils are fooled into flaming up

though it’s January. The bricks soak

in heat like ruddy sponges.

Walking home, I hide

within whatever’s radiant.

A bird whose name I’ve never bothered

to learn sings its farewell

to winter. It’s January, tomorrow

we’ll grieve. Or the next

day, but not this thawed instant,

not in this false blush

of lilac. In my bones, the old scores

with the earth are laid to rest

and each dyspeptic grudge

blossoms into frantic, sweet, careening

love. In your bones,

the tidal hymns of blood.

This heedless smile once was yours.

So too my hands,

themselves fooled

by the tilt of the earth, the white face of a star.