CRESCENDO

Quiescent and 

perfectly 

balanced—here at last

on the first

expectantly

raw but not yet 

bleeding 

edge 

of April—we may,

if we like—

each begin

to observe 

those 

scraps of wild woods 

we love most 

in our world—presently and unmistakably 

growing;

not yet 

a bit greener,

but rather 

gradually—if not 

altogether

musically—

louder,

and more 

and more 

jampacked—with melody.

MAGIC EYE

Now that you're—at least

as old 

as the whole wide 

world—do you cry?

a little 

less often 

than you used

to back 

when you were small? Or

do you

simply—not really notice 

that much anymore 

as more 

and 

more—by 

and by—you gradually

grow

perhaps just 

a little 

too used 

to seeing the reasons why?

ANOINTED

Nothing— 

you could list

is just

what it is—

least of all this 

slippery grey and 

gloomy thing 

pronounced—morning 

in spring;

look hard—and there's 

always 

these small kisses

of sun-

light slipping 

around inside 

each big fat new drop

of dull

rain on your windshield;

or merely—begin

to feel around 

for the faint 

oily 

residue—of old Chopin 

that's slow-

ly

but

surely—

lubricating your traffic jam.

THE FIRST POEM

A poet—
is a 
poet, 
is 
a—poet,
remains a poet!

even 
while he
is silent-
and dreaming.

Before his fame—be it
real 
or imagined—before 

any fantasies regarding
the perfect 
line lengths
and feet
that will lead—eventually 

to editions—with line numbers
and foot-
notes
and those great discrepancies over specific pagination—

but—and 

even! before it
exists in the scrawniest graphemes;

before its symbolism 
gets cast- 
out in cannibalistic symbols—distilled in 

a manner characteristic 
of a stale and inescapably 
pre-given system;

before it even begins
to live 
for him!
The thing gleams—

the poem 
in its raw first idea.

It exists—in his dream

at its absolute
best
at present—when

nothing yet
has been 
said—and nothing—

absolute,
heartrending,
beautiful nothing—

has ever been made
so perfect-
ly 
manifest.

AMALGAM

Kate—I'm afraid
you 
and I 

start to run together 

whenever I see us
walking mid-

western
Great Lakeside—

light clothes 
on blue 
breezes, white 

laughter 
crossing
tall ships—it all

just pretty
much swirls

and gets rather 
indecorously 
jumbled together—such that

there—along my warped 
mind's
fantastic old boardwalk

toddle the bobbing four
legs
of a two-
headed rumpled-
but-
lovable monster—

its several 
rows 
of jabbering 
jaws lightly flapping 
and sinewy 
arms tied
up so tightly
together 
and—occasionally a few

surreal lulls—whenever 

a long garish
twin- 
tongue 

comes un-
apologetically lolling

out 
to skim 
the tip-tops 

of two—freakishly large individual 
triple

chocolate chip waffle cones.

PROGRESSIVELY PRETTIER PAIRS OF GLASSES

We're obsessively watching
from both
far and close-up

such rich 
and mega-
looking stuff—

the hugest sensational Super-
clusters!

and precious-
ly tiny neutrinos!

in showstopping
action-
able beautiful

pursuit 
of the Big Reveal—but all the while

neither 
the large 
nor the littlest things 

we've tried—
offers much 
in the way of 

sensible fashion advice—in fact

neither one really 
seems to be shedding 
a very nice light

at all
on what's right 

smack
in the middle—why ever 

are we still?
so awkward 
and so 
uncomfortably here?—ugly

and ungracious
and 
ungrateful—all the while just 

continuously—
bumping into the furniture.

ENDGAME

Drifting up-
ward,
as if purposefully 

prompted—
by a brief stout sun-
eclipsing cloud,

my thick eyes 
began
at once to scan the wintry morning

sky—and soon were
fixed upon
a lean but clearly 

large and far-off sparrowhawk.

Swiftly turning 
such 
fiercely economical 

and dead-
silent 
circles on the cornerless wind,

they struck me—each

of my cousin's 
steady
fastidious maneuvers— 

as, like my own, completely rational 
and beautiful
manipulations of 

a given environment—but very

unlike the poem
I had
in my mind

already 
begun 
the task of compiling—performed 

without any regard 
and
completely outside 

of whatever 
eventual—
unconscionable goal.