The Day Everywhere and White; “Poem”
The Day Everywhere and White
Spring in the desert and the world
is only a little bit dead,
but here we are
throwing away the dust.
Cast the eye cleanly
against the horizon, a snow
hazing the plumb line.
March is a fly-by-night bird,
her eggs hidden
in tiny wells.
My thunder My thunder
Swing low when the moon is void.
Soon the heat will go platinum,
novice lizards dropping from the sky.
What good then, this huddle
of poppies drowsing the nothing
hillside. What good,
with moss on our hands.
Here where we need to water
down the water,
let’s make a tree from a tree.
This yellow leaf
is just a little clue.
Begin with five words.
Chickaree. Sockwitch. Matterhorn. Burro. Styx.
I stretch them across the flatline and wait for a spark
and if this act of listening is useless
as standing in a field inventing doors
then come, my little failures, meet me
in a gift shop in the middle of nowhere
where cheap clockhands spin circles of air.
Let me cradle you in the cold
disk of a hot pink seashell, slip
inside your rickety wooden shoes
and charm no-thing and its counter-thing.
I have no strings. I have no fire.
But I can sit roadside for hours
watching hawks chase the crows—
who says habit isn’t original?
The wet eye, the being
its small measure of daily noise.
Hum and the grass trembles.