Now that I am old
I have a new relationship with weeping.
I weep for commercials
and white butterflies.
For ugly children and their children,
lonesome roads gray
as heaven. The tax system.
My ghost in flames under the ash tree.
I weep for the joy of weeping.
For the marathon runner, long-distance
trucker, poet, farmer—
all who are professionally acquainted
When I was young, I wept
for pain. Now
I weep for beauty
and his bastard son darkness
and his wife my life.
This article originally appeared in The New Criterion, Volume 34 Number 2, on page 29
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