“One may do anything,” Rilke told us
daydream, dance, de-vein ourselves
like so many shrimp, pink, puffy,
parking themselves along the rim
of glass highway, hitch-hikers
crocking their knees at passing
motorists. This is worthy, he tells us.
This ambling across the plains of
thought and text and torrential
rain pouring down, obscuring
all but the few feet ahead of us
All of it. One may do all of it
because this is the rainbow,
this is the guerdon, the meed,
the recompense for doing anything.
This is what one may. One may
ride the wave or lie, supine, adrift
passive as only a snail, waiting
to be lifted onto a windowsill
can be. The vagaries of word
and will and whimsy, coming
and going from church to chantry
to supple forms singing high
below the rafters. All of it.
One may do it, Rilke told us.