Ah, Sincerely

 

At last it is self evident 

There is nothing to put down

But the clouds moving overhead 

The dead stare into the black

Spoiled and unmoved

Even after I have emptied 

I have this or that or an again.

But the clouds like

A mummy’s tatters turn

Year by year like glaciers

Or of photographed things

In a flea market

Layers tied to happy people 

Naps, summer’s long thoughts.

I press my hand into the rain

I am dumb to these things

I am as a dream’s suddenly

Intelligible and violent 

Up against the sunset color

Of its rounded edges

The fulfilling patches of ponds

Puddles on a blond road puff.

What magnificent theory

Sent me this letter

How funny and kind

And what I am I to say?

It is better in morning 

When we are darker

Like blueberries 

And the bells are silent 

And things again 

Are like themselves 

Is this the time for trees?

Is this the feathery lesson

That articulates?

I am neither a compass

Nor a temperature 

I swell like a river

Again by the defining

Searchlight.