inside me quaked, I somehow stopped
along the storm-
flushed path to work to wonder
for a minute whether
the first man sitting
in the right chair working
at the best time pouring
over clean paper gleaming
in a bright room musing could ever
come out with the preeminent thing concerning
blithe beauty of birdsongs, or about the spaces inter-
rupting fence posts, or maybe
some stony analogy regarding our
selves and lonesome desiccated pine cones—
but just as quick, I dropped
the thought and figured
I'd just as soon find out and hurried, somewhat
sweaty, toward my building
to find the nearest, cleanest, brightest
public toilet to perch on.
