Even the poet says too much when pointing
To the sky, as if the blue formlessness outside
My window, the expanse of readiness across which
Specks of white cloud may or may not pass,
Is to be necessarily emphasized in this moment.
The poet in his pants wanders the countryside
Collecting his epiphanies of swelling feeling
And gathering them together in a basket of
Skillfully ordered words upon parchment,
Returning at last to the city’s central market.
Standing idly and alone by the stone statue of
The warrior who in the past proudly marched
On his horse in battle and slashed the Indian
Enemy with bloodred sword under the same
Empty blue sky beneath which the poet writes.
Dreaming of his love of peace, his hatred of
War, and every sky between black and blue,
And wondering when truth will become
The savior it seems to be, in those flickering
Moments when the words line up and march on.