I SURROUNDED BY POETRY
I am surrounded by poetry
I will never write.
The old man down the block
with his droopy moustashe
and the dog he used to walk, long dead now.
The particular shade or orange in this morning's sky
and the wondrous pink as evening came.
The down on the neck of a woman I loved once
who never knew I loved her.
And her seashell ears.
The bend of her slim elbow.
Her ears--I mentioned that already.
The leafy, logical pattern of ice on my windshield
one January morning--
something a chaos physicist
(talk about a mixed metaphor!)
would have adored.
What smoke feels like in my lungs
when I inhale deeply on a cigarette.
The particular color of the eyes
of the crazy man I talked to and gave two dollars today.
My dreams--coming on me like a tsunami these days--
endless vistas with old friends,
walking through amber when I need to run,
conversations with those log dead,
hard work to accomplish less than nothing.
The smell of skunk standing on my deck.
The taste of coffee ice-cream.
The feel of the hair of my Puli dog.
The sight of a woman, walking fast,
staying in shape, fending off death
by walking fast past my house.
Hearing anything by Mozart on the radio.
And just the way it feels to be inside my skin,
how I can count my bones,
if I would stand still long enougn
The many ways I imagine death.
And there is o time, no time at all,
since I am growing old.
There is no time, no time at all,
to write the poems that surround me.
And what about the dimples my daughter has?
And the strange way new ten dollar bills looks?
And how my wine glass is empty.
And the wear on the 'n' on my keyboard?
And how the ringing in my ears is sometimes a sonata?
And what the night sky resembles?
And the air under my fingernails and the gaps between my teeth?
The sound of rain, rain's smell, all of raining?
What is unworthy of a poem?
Nothing, so far as I can see.
And I don't have the time.
Surrounded by poetry, I have no time to write.
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