Pity Ascending with the Fog

By James Tate

He had no past and he certainly
had no future. All the important
events were ending shortly before
they began. He says he told mama

earth what he would not accept: and I
keep thinking it had something to do
with her world. Nights expanding into
enormous parachutes of fire, his

eyes were little more than mercury.
Or sky-diving in the rain when there
was obviously no land beneath,
half-dead fish surfacing aoo over

his body. He knew all this too well.
And she who might at any time be
saying the word that would embrace all
he had let go, he let go of course.

I think the pain for him will end in
May or January, though the weather
is far too clear for me to think of
anything but august comedy.

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