Dateline

my pillow is wet beneath my head
an invisible fist presses down my chest
joy and sorrow are so minutely separated
one can slide into the other
at the sound of a song
or the absence of your touch

so it seems to me, despite the idea
that these feelings simply happen
and pass though us, (and I know
this is true, and my body knows also)

that if the daylight line between
joy and sorrow is so slim, well, if I can
and since I can, I choose joy;
and the tears are the same
the pressure on my chest the same
but oh, my dearest love
nothing else is at all