Good As It Goes

There’s a sense in a soft hour,
A bland glide through a bright day

That none of what you might think
You want, none of what you love,

None of your gods or your kind,
None of how you’ll change the world,

None of your goals, not so much
As one least wish to be known,

To last, to win in the end,
To make a mark, leave a name,

Means a thing. The thing that lasts
Is the way that things don’t last,

Not cause, art, faith, fame—they are,
This is, you are, and we’re gone,

Which is just the way we are,
Which is just the way it goes—

The soft hour, the calm, the warmth
Of what’s good and knows it goes.