It is a haven climbing here under Your hand, as it
moves across the porch Thumbing among the
As it dips into the pit of the night And
grasps the wrist of the departing.
I wish I could be one of your lovers
And could bring you food and rings
Good news and stationery,
Photographs and improved climate. I would climb
out from under your fingertips And would leap
from knee to knee. You would surely supply me
with dust particles then For me to drop on all these
beetles; And I would roll them down mountainsides
And listen for the crushing noise.
Together we would forge a mode of life.
They would find us hidden under the sea
Just after the earth entirely collapsed,
A situation I hope will never obtain.
I like it here very much now.
[there is so much in life that poetry]
There is so much in life that poetry Is afraid to
touch. Where are the longed-for lyric poems About
money? My favorite Latin-American poet Is a
Puerto-Rican who lives in New York And
complains about the cockroaches With gusto. With
almost no gusto, I listen To lyric poems about your
soul, about your aunt who wanted
To be a great painter, but raised 58
nephews And one niece instead,
leaving you with a Crappy responsibility and a sore piano.
Here, in the land of languishing
I plunk down my little time bomb. Here, from
Beneath my balloon, in a gondola loaded with
tombstones On a distant hill, I wait for reports.
From Time is a Toy by Michael Benedikt. Copyright 2014. Excerpted by permission of University of Akron Press.