sitting on Utah

4/12/05

so why not sit down in the grass?
I know that some of
my very best
writing
has been done inside, always
in the glare of a phosphorus window
or amber light, Sylvania’s best –
but why not let the real sun
touch my arms and light
my fires? Why not let this
spring breeze
        last of the day
mess up my hair with its playful fingers?

        It’s like a child, the wind –
and the playground ain’t far off

so come, wind, let’s ride the earth
like drunken gypsies, father and son
leering around like a pair of
basketballs trotting the globe
in search of nothing
nothing at all
save the fairies in the grass