Wednesday, February 3, 2016


What a tumultuous million
invisible and peculiar melodies
must be simultaneously hitting
their sourest notes—at the very instant

the wan morning air—such a moist
and vast slow gray,

so wide-
and unclaimed,

but which kindly comprises
in that boundlessness,
a home

to those little magic kisses, those flighty birds
of mere possibilities,
evacuating calm and mildly
through your wettish nose and lips—

and inexorably—

into tame and shrewd gunmetal
curtain of air
which calls itself—the afternoon;

and which offers no shelter anywhere
in its dark hard folds
to those silly prospects
and winged potentialities,

but only scrapes hard
at the earth near your shoes,
hollow, desiccated, and brooding—

how much stuff
do you
still have to do?