On Recurrence

Would you embrace 
the same life over again

with all its dailiness and doldrums,
its thankless and eternal repetition;

or given the chance (a wish, a win?)
think you could aspire to a different

existence? Would the roadside
thistles lose their prickles, free

their tufted purple rosettes 
from the jaws of the involucre? 

Each thing goes on in its own
particular way. It doesn't matter,

or it will matter: how you clench
your fists, how you finally let your jaw

soften; how you remember to eat,
to give yourself up to the need for sleep.