Classic Poem

Cool, in the long barn
the wind blows through and the blue-
enamelled and saffron swallow—
barb out of a bow-in-the-clouds—
whips to his clay vase
full of fierce little faces …

I pretend he is not there—or
that I am not here—an effacement,
considering here's naught else then
but dung, perhaps too profound
by a fork's length. But if
I look straight at him, he'll fly.

I wish him no harm. I'd be happy
if once he'd alight on my hand
and I held it all here an instant—
that wind-world he can turn,
with a tilt of a feather, softer
than pollen or taut as ice—
to skate on those blue blades
in the fjords of the summer cumulus.

But haven't I learned by now
the hunter's, soldier's, lover's guile
or ‘cool’—how not to be there,
how the heart's-desire takes,
or is taken, unaware?











By permission of the author.