Sometimes,
after staring at a wall
until a bell says stop,
I find I no longer have it in me
to muster up judgment, opinions,
a local point of view.
Your sweater is … teal.
Your iPhone seems … to be there for you.
Your feet look … cold.
There’s still room for projections as
the reel churns on at this hand-crank of God
and we all have a craving for popcorn.
Yet drained of any stance-ness, I must say:
that cup is black, with an inside of white.
My pen leaks blue liquid on this crisp bleached page
like things we made to make our lives easier.
The basket is woven.
Some socks match, some don’t.
A sword stands in the basket in the middle of the room
like someone for some reason put it there.
I rose this morning with malaise in my fluids.
In the car, NPR aired a piece on Mary Oliver.
Some New Yorker editor and a critic of
her very last book — Devotions.
They were playing nice the best they knew how;
editor man gently noting how academic poets
tend not to appreciate her 'blatancy'.
"I do!" I told the radio with waking veins.
So yes, let's be clear:
The cup is black.
The lotus blooms.
The sword in the stone
is today in a basket.
Everything just wants
to be loved.
after staring at a wall
until a bell says stop,
I find I no longer have it in me
to muster up judgment, opinions,
a local point of view.
Your sweater is … teal.
Your iPhone seems … to be there for you.
Your feet look … cold.
There’s still room for projections as
the reel churns on at this hand-crank of God
and we all have a craving for popcorn.
Yet drained of any stance-ness, I must say:
that cup is black, with an inside of white.
My pen leaks blue liquid on this crisp bleached page
like things we made to make our lives easier.
The basket is woven.
Some socks match, some don’t.
A sword stands in the basket in the middle of the room
like someone for some reason put it there.
I rose this morning with malaise in my fluids.
In the car, NPR aired a piece on Mary Oliver.
Some New Yorker editor and a critic of
her very last book — Devotions.
They were playing nice the best they knew how;
editor man gently noting how academic poets
tend not to appreciate her 'blatancy'.
"I do!" I told the radio with waking veins.
So yes, let's be clear:
The cup is black.
The lotus blooms.
The sword in the stone
is today in a basket.
Everything just wants
to be loved.