This will be the gift of salt.
This will be the gift of myrrh.
This will be the gift of take off the head
and the feet but give me the neck for soup.
This will be the gift of close your eyes,
of nearly dusk at the petting zoo,
of listen, you can’t hear them anymore.
Under a boat a cricket has night all day—
warm and starless, more than dark enough.
Hawks fly and airplanes and in the marsh
a great blue heron. This is how the baby
should be put in its seat. This is how
to wipe its mouth clean. This is a cry to listen to.
This is a cry to ignore. This much
is too much. Be careful of not enough.
This is how to rock when it refuses to sleep.
You think with a slide rule and hand drawings
they could get a rocket off the ground?
If we went in ’69, how come we stopped going?
The sun is the only source of light,
but shadows intersect. And where’s the dust?
Dorian phrygian lydian mixolydian
locrian aeolian ionian harmonic.
Don’t worry the lines, suggest the slope
and we’ll guess the meaning. That’s the spirit.
This will be the gift of myrrh. You take care
of what’s yours. That’s a star not a planet.
This will be the gift of salt. If it’s cold,
give the horses their blankets. This will be
the gift of pinesap wine and cartons of milk.
If it’s hot, sponge them down.