With the soft unimpressiveness of a village
and the sticky impressiveness of a city,
from the crick in the neck of a dahlia
to the a frog in the throat of a poolshark
as he blows his nose and plays a crucial shot of pool,
the dome throbs from its gentlemen’s club
of mathematically sound but somehow utterly
preposterous stirrups, to the emerald sky,
which is always all ways inclined, and coos.
I’m crying in the middle of the night
about night, and thinking, in the middle
of my mind, about little. Under trees, where dark
gold leaves do as much as us, cardinals
compare hats and complement each others’ bodies.
by Col. Baldwüllz