Speak to me, I am listening
Speak to me I am listening, dreaming of daytime With fresh snow dripping over a green-tipped bud. Like the sage I am listening, talk with me. Can you find the figure in the ground? New spring is eating the fleeting footnotes! Why is the ibid not quite the same as last time? Why is there a space after the last quotation? Is there no center line no passing lane, no stop and starting over? Why waste the daylight brooding over last year’s bundle huddled in a sidewalk corner frozen maybe in the night wind covered maybe with a snow blanket. It is a spirit thing I know it, but how can I pull over? Not even a mist to quite pin down those cirrus skyway lanes. Oh I do know where they go; I’ve been there once before. I know all about the territory, Days blending in the linoleum kitchen floor With their long aprons and smelling of bleach Taking the back stairs down to the fruit room Looking for Oregon cherries.