Lyric
Something that doesn’t love
a long poem,
the curlicue of its drama,
the endless switchbacks
of cantos, dream songs
that never wake to a wife
lying beside, a whole day
waiting to walk
to the blue-white edge of the horizon
and jump, not squat on a calendar
of acts twelve books long
waiting to sail into Ithaca
or Portsmouth on a Greyhound.
Serve up a lyric with three stars
poking their heads
through the moony skein of night,
twenty lines
dripping with potential,
a bevy of bantam chicks
nesting in the great tree of its meaning.
