Morning and “Opaline” Light after Three Days of Rain
These birds are calling machines, sound spinning on a string,
and then there’s the real machine—something cutting through
the last real rock Manhattan has. Yesterday was dumb
and not in a good way. An artist might be simple and strange,
lovely and dumb. Yesterday was not an artist. (I’m scared
of ugly animals, people with shopping bags and masks who
step in your way to cough in your face on Central Park South
remind me to walk on the other side of the street next time,
the park side where raccoons and lost schizophrenic sons
will watch over me.) I was on the 1 train thinking of you
after reading “Beware of bone-tiredness/ that brings sickness.”
Oh, friend who is my heart. For real. Come see me
someday before we’re dead. We’ll shuffle along together
and swing our arms bent a little, like you like to do.
The light’s a slow kaleidoscope. I can see one stunted
branch and a wall of light on brick through the grate.
No comments :
Post a Comment