I’m sick of the night
deep as a lagoon,
its plum waters
crazed with larvae,
and the egret stars
picking, picking,
as their bills
garble moonlight
to fine glitter;
dog-tired of the spring days
thick as hops,
when seedpods lie wet
in their golden hulls,
and the streetlamps at dusk
echo and re-echo
a bluesy sun;
fed up with the chee chee
of the cardinals,
and the black quilted
cloud cover over the mountain,
and the hand-brogue
of the deaf-mute
across the road,
yes, and the loudmouthed
yahoo next door;
have had enough now
of the kites
circling, circling
like polishing rags,
and the lake tilting
its wet thighs
around a bend,
a white arc
from zenith to horizon;
I’m sick to death
of all the Halloweens
and Easters,
and the neighbor girls
loping through the yard:
(each pelvis a-flutter
like a pair of wings)
the mud ripe
in the mid-August heat,
the popsongs,
the gone-sours,
the setbacks, the blights,
the cartwheel heart
where love careens,
all the little dismals
and the giant dreams.