April 28th, 2003

spring

Morning Poem Draft

The vocabulary of the body is not usually complex:
hemorroids indicate problems held up, unexpressed;
headaches something you don't want to think about
(or lack of food, or sleep, or mysterious migraine -
headaches are too nuanced to be expressed concisely).

Some speak Souvenir. "Hi, I went snowboarding at Whistler"
or "This is the way my nose used to be. This is the way
my eyes slid over it." or slide into habit. "I touch
myself here", "I use a fountain pen." Sherlock Holmes
spoke these and seventeen kinds of cigarette ash -
astute semiotician! Trivial static, though. Easily tuned out.

It's the song you can't get out of your head, the jingle
that pops in at an odd moment and speaks to the circumstance,
that's you talking, some other you, some you-er you.
The blossom at the heart of the rose, the slip of light
seen in an abandoned house at sunset, the hummingbird
outside the window in the dawn, seen only by you and the world
as you listen to the moment, as you hear it speak your name.
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