Gray pavement glistens.
Rain anoints guttered leaves. Steam
swells over coffee.
Maybe distances used to simply be too
distant. Falseness could traverse the globe
be rediscovered on worm-ravaged parchment,
and accepted as historically accurate.
In less than
the width of a single eyelash,
the muted click of a keyboard,
lies now damage
everyone at the same time.
Dance of the old house
radiator: knit sweater
off, on, off, on, off
Written in January 1972 when he and I were sixteen years old.
So many years of hurricanes
and earthquakes, tornados that rip
through minds and souls and aliveness.
How is it able to still thrash blindly
through our bloodstreams;
grind into destruction
every heart it touches.
Hallway body slam
thunders sleeping eyes open.
Addled, all time stops.
See, if we turn both
our chairs this way, it will seem
a different world
presses wet leaves against windows,
batters gray-guttered snow into drains,
beads on the eyeglasses of cabbies and mail carriers,
pelts the round shoulders of the old,
and strafes the last, stalwart blossoms
finally to the sidewalk, never asking
for forgiveness or gratitude.
It never asks even
to saint is less noticed than
Standard to Daylight