Classic Poem

There is a proper season for stars, and enough
time for the abyss. On this granite floor,
however, nothing is certain, not even the
little song I thought I heard, disembodied,
almost anonymous. It could have been
a poppy head in the display case. Or maybe
a cuckoo. I counted the notes as if counting
was a virtue, and even sang a few notes
in a register useful for grasshoppers,
but it was lost on them. Today, everything
is lost, probably due to the posture gods
used to warm their thighs which tended
to the crushing of mortals. So now, gigantic
on the wall, their shapes are flickers or fever.
Somewhere may be another world, but I have
chosen this place for the echoes. I stand
behind the lemons on the table as if summoned,
thinking of fishes tossed into a boat. I have
set aside their shiny shadows and will wait to see
how to use them. Whatever they are like
I'll call mine. I have gathered other things
too, indifferent to quality, setting necessity
next to impoverishment. And even if all this
never existed it will appear as something
by which I'll make my way. If when I wake
nothing's there, I'll want that too.











From Poetry Magazine, Vol. 189, no. 2, November 2006. Used with permission.