Celestial Seasonings
Flight of the bumblebee
next door, the neighbor’s
kettle’s voice through her
screened window at three
in the morning, into our
bedroom. The cool air
brings sound, dangles there.
Not wind. Air. Not the hour.
Time. Not the neighbor cloaked
in her fuzzy robe, blue and gold,
stars, moons. Not the cold
air. Not me. Not the egg yolk.
The chickens that laid
the chickens that made more
chickens. The saloon doors
we installed, handmade,
stenciled with UNIVERSE.
One song. Second verse
is the same as the first,
little bit louder, little bit worse.
Oooh, I love what you do with that song at the end. There's a fuzzy, quiet, tingle to this poem all the way through.
ReplyDeleteWhich verse came first, the Rimsky-Korsakov or Sleepytime, the steam or the whistle, the saloon door or the Universe?
ReplyDeleteAn Ashberyesque meditation on 3AM time, if he was a suburban woman living next door to my ex-wife.
Ashberry? Interesting thought, William. I don't know if I could ever explain this poem or where its power comes from, but I find something very ominous here--good, but ominous. Also, I didn't notice the understated rhyming till the last three lines, which sent me back to see the others--very natural, very skillful word and sound play. Excellent.
ReplyDeleteI love this, very sensual and vivid.
ReplyDelete