by Jim Harrison

From In Search of Small Gods

Read by Emma Rye

I’m hoping to be astonished tomorrow

by I don’t know what:

not the usual undiscovered bird in the cold

snowy willows, garishly green and yellow,

and not my usual death, which I’ve done

before with Borodin’s music

used in Kismet, and angels singing

“Stranger in Paradise,” that sort of thing,

and not the thousand naked women

running a marathon in circles around me

while I swivel on a writerly chair

keeping an eye on my favorites.

What could it be, this astonishment,

but falling into a liquid mirror

to finally understand that the purpose

of earth is earth? It’s plain as night.

She’s willing to sleep with us a little while.