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A Spring Clock
It is not like the drama builds
to throbbing crescendo.
Just a progression—
expanding buds saying
when the ducklings will come—
when the world will be different.
Reading Robert Creeley
The experience of experience—
not documenting or creating scrapbooks,
not boxing or shelving.
No—the texture of alien new language,
not frozen travelogue bent by worn form.
No—the intimacy of speaking with the mouth sewn shut.
An evolving touch, surprised but not startled.
Not dad pale and rouged in the shiny casket,
like he'll be gone forever.
Only for now (a cry)—revelation that startles, and caresses,
the half seen made concrete—
amazing, the right breast bigger and more responsive.
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