This Is Vaguely Somehow About the Poem

But we in our motes

(may I offer you some?)

paint the foreground

with pointed perfection

of the few glimpses

he had in Giverney

with autumn within shot

to tell us that this novel nothing

pleases the sawdust sunlight

amid the carnal comments

With Your Coffee

Do you prefer

the anticipation

of a snowball

A room with

or without a

fish tank

An Eden-like porch

with wicker

and Adirondacks

A long sleep

with the feeling of being

awake or a short one

after a day in a hot tent

in a sweatshirt

or the right book

forgetfulness

clever understandings

ice out in the universe

eavesdropping realizations

praying mantis entertainment

the dead with a suitcase of mist

or whatever you call it

three creams and two sugars

with your coffee.

Insert Idea

Glimspes of boarders

advance like suggestions

living like the lights of cars.

Now that one doesn't always remember

that something emerges for a moment

and breathes into the atmosphere

and that we

as we sit on these bleachers

begin like an undoing

the weather of a last novel

rocking on and on

half brushed by mud

half impossible like rain touching

the dome of twilight.

Is this old hat?

Insert idea.

Drinking from Dew

The truth towards the end of morning
could ask us of anything
if it asks like the trees ask
a heavy swaying
offering to renew the scent
of tomatoes
as if the sweetness was passing.

Flowers perhaps we could ask
would still gather us up some meaning
before the people begin handing them
out on every street corner of every city.