What is life
if it isn’t practice?
What’s the point
of doing anything
if it isn’t practise.
Who doesn’t live in hope of tomorrow?
Who doesn’t know in their underpants
that there may not be a tomorrow,
that this may be the final moment?
My mother used to say “we know not the day nor the hour’
She liberated me from the tyrany of Heaven, the necessity of a future
for which I could not practise.
There is only practice,
forget that and you are lost in the miasma of a moment.
This is not the poem,
this is a rehearsal,
this is practice for the poem,
the poem that speaks for itself
after you are gone
and have given up your vocation
to do your best practice
in case you won’t get a second chance