may morning:
the nineteenth:
five: fifteen
the color’s done coming
and the sun’s not up.
and whatever
pellet fed farm-raised salmon
pink slid by the roof
of our new neighbor’s
house is faded—either
drunk or puffed or drawn
apart or away. today
it will rain. a may rain
and gratefully it will make
the bleak maple more
leafy, it will blot out
maybe all of the male
cardinal I saw yesterday
in another tree, a mature
lilac, and he didn’t wait
for me to see anything
else. doesn’t the word
beauty come closer than any
other word to a cloud
that is always away from
now even before anyone
can say what they see,
before today, when I’d begun
here to put it all down
in the first line, how it’s all ready
finished and done?
No comments:
Post a Comment