I raise my glass to the day that never arrives,*

and I drink to the choices
they would have us believe
are also ours:

No, poeta, there are more
than three— more than yesterday,
today, and tomorrow. Or,
following your ultimate

which leaves out the denuded
rose of yesterday and the ashes
of the diminished present,

only tomorrow exists.
But I argue there is in addition
such a thing as post-,
which is brilliant shorthand

meaning we are among those
chosen somehow by history to receive
the mantle of what they call

*after Nicanor Parra, “The Last Toast;” with thanks
to Dave Bonta for the reminder


In response to Via Negativa: Love song to a mobile device.

One Reply to “I raise my glass to the day that never arrives,*”

  1. From palate to post
    a swallow reversed
    its nest of havoc’s
    sire bedlam that
    engrossed spare moments
    picked for their odd light

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