Pursuit of Happiness
Always there is this wait before sky speaks.
At least it speaks, at least I mostly wait,
Though some days, frenzied, I will start to run.
Yes, like most men I can run easily.
Mostly, though, I wait. Here, in my quiet
I am St. Francis with his animals.
Out of the blue-black cold, the still dawn air,
the night stars disappearing one by one—
my day star will join at that last hour
not yet given to me, not yet, not yet—
I draw from air the dragon, basilisk,
minotaur, unicorn, will o’the wisp.
I set them down, the most ordinary
birds we know. Look, my hands are opening.
Come, little ones, sparrows of the street,
I have cast this bread upon the waters,
the black macadam. Now my hands open.
Witness these lifelines streaming with light.
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About the Author
Peter Cooley, author of Divine Margins, teaches creative writing at Tulane University.
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