Classic Poem

Drooping yellow and orange hawkweed,
Ox-eye daisy between the pavement
And second-growth forest, while I
Was stopped consulting a map —
I didn't know where I was going
But it seemed important
To know where I was.
Either the heat or the banality
Of being without work ...


Lipsticks of dawn, strangers ambling
A beach, bones of unusual fish,
Or the face emerging from under
The structure of a pier, someone
Who could be loved if the right
Personality happened by. Myself,
For instance ...


With flower boxes on fronts
Of bungalows along the way
(petunias mostly)
Until the last gas station
Was in the distance —
Frank O'Hara said, the country
Is the city without houses.
There was a time when I thought
That was insightful —
A lilt in the air


Or that tedious hour
Awaiting daylight


Crouching
Before a goat's-beard flower.
The only bird for miles
Attends to a burdock.
A bird without color.
The air so dry
I thought it might crack open ...











From Poetry Magazine, Volume 190, Number 3, June 2007. Used with permission.