Tuesday, April 1, 2014


Three notes alone of the song remain
The rest lost so long almost no one
Remembers it has been forgotten.
Other songs make room for them
Sometimes an old cat purrs them.
When I hear these notes I pretend
They mean nothing to me at all,

In Brooklyn the cherry trees blossom;
People dressed as cartoon characters
Have come to see them. Far from Japan
The trees have grown used to this.
They accept, as their due, admiration
From blue-haired men and women
With the tails and ears of cats.


A small sugar bowl in the sun’s slant rays
Sits besides an even smaller pitcher of milk
And some books, each smaller than the last.
The smallest cannot hold its words which stand,
An unruly, jostling crowd, outside its covers.
The verbs struggle to maintain coherence
Patrolling the ragged edges of the throng.
They find a sleeping noun and argue;
To shout? To buzz? To clamor? To kick?
The adverbs are straggling off in gangs
Hopelessly, mysteriously, gaily.
Bits of punctuation have fallen --
Or leapt -- into the milk, and the cats,
Suspicious, watch bright adjectives
Creeping through the fresh-mown grass

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