East Hampton: The Structure of Sound

Bedrooms ease their shingles

into the yawning gardens:

the silence sucks at my eardrums

and my skull flowers open like popcorn.

Perpetual Sunday morning:

the quiet spreads out like a meadow.

I loaf and invite my soul,

and it sprawls in the shade like a toadstool.

Mondays, Manhattan is shapely

in the perfect circles of sirens,

the shrill music of taxis

making symmetries, patterns, and bounds:

jackhammers chisel my brain

to correct community standards

as the dawn comes up like thunder

out of Brooklyn, the shaper of sunrise.