It is morning and the sun still lies low, below
The tree tops.
The sidewalks and the carefully trimmed lawns are wet
With water from sprinklers.
And where the road is hemmed in by woods, bands of
Light and darkness.
The world, contrary to what the nostalgists or the futurists hold,
Exhibits the same
Ambiguity in the morning newspapers – a new cure for stroke balanced
By a fresh massacre of innocents.
Aromas of various breakfasts from open windows – bacon, jam, baked apples
Vanish when a garbage truck trundles by.
Traffic picks up with passing hour, the day drags the sun higher by
It’s orbiting leash.
Cars with office workers flanked by joggers, mothers with perambulators
And dog walkers, start the parade.
After good morning, howdy and all that to the neighbor lady in a straw hat
Hunched over dahlias and black eyed susans with shears,
The poet returns home, to coax a poem out of such everyday things
As sun breaches the screen of trees.

Words are a poor medium To transform a remembered sight Into something more permanent A cut diamond or a statue by Rodin, for example.

Yet as someone bestowed with limited Gifts, they must suffice in my case. Let others sculpt, paint or compose concertos To celebrate the beauty of perishable flesh and bone.

I can only begin with metaphors, Some of which great poets and writers Have already invented and used before me. This perhaps should discourage any sane man

But I persist for what I have seen is not what Someone else saw, even though our eyes were Trained on the same view. Take her skin – White and delicate, glittering like a wet fish.

Or her lips, smelling of cinnamon, flush with Blood, twin petals of an orchid. Hear her throaty Laughter, poured like wine from a long necked jar. Watch her shadowy navel appear and disappear

Like the moon. Consider the arch formed by her Naked arms raised behind her head, fingers knotting And unknotting thick dark hair – a bridge Over a gurgling creek, inviting the thirsty

To bend and drink the cold water directly With the mouth, like an animal. An animal, which perhaps doesn’t know Anything about these ideas I am writing about:

Beauty and the desire that beauty evokes. But tell me, hasn’t history of the world Extending to the present shown that A man too is another animal?

[A]

The worn grain of an old chair, The shape of a woman’s ankle, A spear of grass in the day’s eye, The belfry of a watchful heart, Each tolls a silence. Why do I Use words then?

[B]

My eyes scan pages of books And my tongue exchanges Coins of words. Still there is A flatness to my soul, into which Understanding shines only dimly. The bog teems with secrets Filed by the years. And what poor Spades I use to dig!