The thing about living
on planet Earth is
the Sun
always seeming
from this perspective, to rise
of its own volition—
each morning
glory petal uncurling
the same way its
light arcs and turns dreamy
through the green glass
which is strewn
around everywhere:
Rolling Rock, maybe
San Pellegrino—
domesticated German, wild
Latinate words combining,
disposable shells
of desperation
and sensibility,
all these trivial
husks of hard money—
all divorced, but
each kissed into glimmering
in the same decisive way;
coerced to cohere—
to mingle
in this loamy alley
like Rothkos
in their gallery.
