In the time it took
to walk
from a parked car
to my building's door,
I don't know
how - but I'm awful sure -
that a
certain
forthright
sort of
poem occurred.
See, in a snap
I saw
the virile wind
whisk quick away the
overhead fertile
froth of clouds;
revealing,
for the very
first time that morning,
that a phenomenal blue
had always been shining
forth without
my words
to see it through—
but I couldn't imagine
what claims I'd stake
on
such a credible
display of
ordinary reality
(what, after all,
would Stevens Say?
What in hell
would Wittgenstein write?)
from here inside my sloppy
office, kinked
around a desktop;
so I contented myself
with describing the scene
and moving on to more
concrete things—
Surely whereof one cannot speak,
one must
play some videogames.
