May 29

comments 10

The sky too blue,
it’s impossible to think.

Along the fence
the columbines bloom

in neon hues, split into
alien chambers, spurs.

Along the road,
banks of snow, no—

cottonwood down,
filling the air with fluff,

an invitation to float,
a call to subvert, a paean

to the arbitrary–
although they say

that finding personal meaning
in ordinary things is just one

of many signs of delusion.
Still, on the radio

three different times,
on three different stations,

I heard cha-cha-cha-changes—
and there was no giant

earthquake, of course,
that guess as good as any

attempt to tack sense
on to nature’s permutations,

that is, as doomed
as Bowie’s tracings–

while in the grass
a sleeping cat,

a brazen bird, just how
many ways this minute

could have went—
but this was it,

and now it’s gone,
and only the seeds

betrayed any sort
of motion.


  1. Where I come from, my first reaction to this poem is that it’s so good I have to say something like, “You stink.” It’s so good it gets my twelve-year-old-Wiffleball-playing-and-just-watched-my-friend-hit-one-over-the-maple-tree-and-don’t-want-him-to-feel-THAT-awesome-about-that-hit-although-it-was.

    And it was.


  2. What can you teach me English writing poetry, I also want to write a poem in which the words are such deep meaning, I Write poetry in Hindi but also want to write in English


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