Fumbling in the Light
 

There are many kinds of darkness,
and many kinds of death,
but poetry is not one of them.

It is difficult to get the news from poems,
said Williams.

There are many ways of 
fumbling in the dark
and dying.
Someone is thinking of another way
this very moment.

The poetry of earth is never dead,
said Keats.

It is the only way we have of
fumbling in the light.

 

Monolog

 

I’m weary with saying
To myself, over and over,
The next predictable word.

Why not say seedy buckberry,
Or margravine, or banana telegraph?
Or pokeweed, or mammy lorry?

Why not say girl?
Or steam bath, or piglet,
Or flower?

Why not let the poor dog tongue
Run, and fall and rub its back,
And get up and sing again?

At least you, Florida,
Would pay attention.
At least

The rain falling would wash
A raincoat I’m not wearing
For this storm.

 

The Poet's Tea

 

The cup comes from Monticello:
A colored picture on the front,
Faded prose on the back.

The tea is from England:
Typhoo tea, the poet’s
Favorite, but down

In the milky deep of it,
What sweetens it all into
Itself, is the trace of

Honey, of wild flowers of
Thyme, straight from Crete.
This is what makes it good.