ONE MORE THEORY ABOUT HAPPINESS

That it comes to you like an accident

with a powder-actuated nail gun,

that it’s wisdom of the sort

you hear in line with your cargo

of toothpaste, detergent, condoms,

salt, whatever has appeared

on the vacant horizon of the day

like ink smudge or birds on the wing

for Mexico. That it multiplies

with the mythic, sexual frenzy of the rabbit,

which you regard, now,

like Fellini played backwards

at half-speed. That whole libraries

to it are devoted like pious

women in a foreign country,

perhaps Spain, their white hair ignored.

That you will reap it

according to what you sow.

That you will speak of it

the way you remember an unread book.

That you’ll find it.

That in eternity your keys find you.

That desire is the cause

of all human suffering

according to Buddha,

according to Jesus,

according to the man whose arms dead-end

at the bulbs of his elbows

kicking a dog

from the sidewalk with savage joy.

That the dog in this

matter has no say,

except to articulate miniature outrage.

That it is better to have no arms than four legs.