The donkey my daughter lovescannot reach the flowers that growin the film of soil the ocean breezehas lifted to the roof of the barn.We don't know what they're calledand speak too little of the languageto ask the farmhand their name,though we can tell they're deliciousby the way the donkey cocks its headto two o'clock toward the roofand strains its prehensile lipsto almost reach them, an effortthat looks like rememberinga word you can almost rememberhow it nearly touches the voice—"It's on the tip of my tongue," we say.And I don't know what to sayto myself, or the man I become,inside those days and nights of hurtI cannot argue my way out of.I know it won't be enough to say,"Remember the orchard over there,its plums and cherries, and applesjust forming from the blooms."Not enough to remember the tideswe hear beyond the meadows, howthey leave the beach crackedlike ancient porcelain. Not enoughto repeat the Auden lines I mutteredto myself last night at the restaurantwhen I felt the depression coming on,eerie as a suspicion of being watched."The lights must never go out,"I said, "the music must always play."And it almost worked: the intoxicationof asking for and receiving the trayof oysters gleaming like an ornate dock,then the bouquet of mussels,and the baked sea bream symmetricalas a well-wrapped Christmas gift.But I've learned that you can lovepleasure and still want to diewhile absolutely not wanting to die,a situation that requires, if nothing else,some patience, the precise gentlenessthe donkey grants my daughter's handas she offers the wanted flowersto the mouth that destroys and loves them.