Which Is Where We Are Now

Drowsy in the afternoon
 I daydream of how life began
Where to begin?
A fool to set the dial at dawn
 full daylight then
fifteen minutes beforehand
 affords no preview
A full hour buys an inkling
 of twilight’s twinkling
 of Daphne’s whispering
  embracing of the embankments
  away from Apollo’s attainment
Even then,
 I have yet to see when
 day articulates its begin

A solitary cloud on the horizon gleams
 the night is brushed into luxuriance by degrees
 the tension of the starry–eyed watchmen
  and their moonbeams are relieved
The horizon is wreathed in ambient light
 out of the blue
 the firmament is established
an ocean of clouds, rose–imbued
 engulf their first little plume
from the ash of the trees’ leaves
 a remote rebel wind blows
 rekindling an ember which died long ago
a reversal of fate crackles
 the wood births its master
Beyond the mists, a beam strikes
Behold the glob: uncontrolled fire
My eyes catch her eyelash rays
heat alights me; I avert my gaze
knowing dawn

I lumber home to begin my way
 occasionally glaring back
 resenting the triumphant orb’s
 overpowering glory and iridescent morning
What could I do to compare with the making of the day?
 I just bask in it

All those unanswered sunsets
 each have their sad goodbyes’ bright condolences
I’ve slumbered in ignorance, abjured the witness of it
I don’t live here, but somewhere hours hence or thence
 and remain lulling in jet lag, a perpetual guest

Now in my seeking
 I send unsuspecting foxes leaping
How natural it fits
 the pace of my body and the strengthening of my wits
 with dawn’s rising, when I attend to it
How ready I am
 at the day’s sad forsaking
 to yield to the dream
 of continual awakening

What a strange pole I stand on
 my compass just spins
Inner fumblings
 keep me dancing on a pin
Some daft defiance of gravity
 lets me be
Juxtaposed with the world
 for all to see
Only let me twirl
           let me be
           let me hum with grace
                 and buzz with glee

I spied you as I entered the grocer
 By the time I reached the checkout, I knew
 I had to have you
 Petals vibrant yellow
 Upon inspection revealing
 crimson deep within
 that’s how I knew
 cursing my impetuosity
 why, how need
 why and how 

I brought you home
 not one peep
 not one flower spread
 no color deep
 depressed, languishing

After the dreary days
 Just my luck to bump into wisdom
 that knew your ways
  your needs
 knew you’ve outgrown your pot
And at the center they knew hibiscuses
 like it comfy and warm
Every season something new
 just an inch or two
 to continue unfurling roots
and something to lean on
 when things need straightening

The next day, amid the trees
 I see you sporting that same flower
  the one that brought me to you
fully extended

Wind gushing through the tall trees at twilight
The air pats me on the back
  with soft touches of the day’s last heat
Fading rays of the sun’s reflective goodbye
 stream through, gloomy as moonbeams
Some glint in the corner of my eye
 a speck of gold, supernatural
                  Firefly
I spy you hobbling around in preflight
 I delight in your throbbing fob
  as you grow into your wings
                  Firefly
What a welcome first sighting
I suppose we must all crawl alone in the dusk
  before we dance in heady teams
And as I dwaddle home I see
      Firefly, Firefly, Firefly
out laying a phosphorescent carpet for me

O Little one
flattened by the wheel
 of some innocuous trip
  to work, to school, to the grocers
You lay accursed in this driveway
 how could your nimble speed
 be overrun by the suburban 5 mph
As I pick you up I see
 not crimson blood bursting
  from your mouth
 but some bright berry you were
  scurrying away with

I used page through women’s
 clothing magazines for the babes
 Whatever they wore was a teasing distraction
I thought I knew well Victoria’s Secret
 my uncle joked for me to watch out
 while the poison was already stealing silently
 through my veins
That such powerful possessors
 would fall prey to obsession with accessories
 laid bare an horrific mystery

Now that love has departed
 I wonder how much damage was dealt
 by my brutal insistence
 that her beautiful self was all that was wanted
All that’s left are these seasonal mailings
 Sifting through the pages
 delving back in time
 for something I missed
Now I look at the artifacts
 am in awe by the inspired, nurturing designs
Watch beauty echo… echo… echo:
 I am beauty; take care

Belly–dancing Friday & Saturday nights
 Ask about our cakes and pastries
 together on the hookah menu
It feels illegal
 this fantastic peace–pipe
 imported from a distant land
 where — I imagine — it is the usual
 mouthpiece playing the timeless tune of friendship
 in some tent with cushions and languishing heat
We talk of brownies
 as we inhale deeply
 blowing dragon’s breath from our nostrils
 attempting Gandalf rings
We talk of communism and kibbutz
 as the silent flat–screen
 entrapped in its frame
 trails on pitching capitalism
Abruptly comes the belly dancer
 sword balanced on head
 smirk balanced on lips
 a knowing corniness goes unheeded
 tables laugh giddy with defense
It feels illegal
 this brazen display
 with its own language it speaks fluently
That middle–aged Persian
 to whom I earlier beamed
 glares at her — all the women do —
 not enviously
 at beauty speaking its truth
 which all possess and most mostly murmur
All part of the act
 dancer coaxes handsome man
 to mimic her poorly in happy embarrassment
 revealing the difference between babble and eloquence
Then the young, curly-haired maiden stands
 and with so natural an expression on her face
 silently undulates a state of grace
 echoing phrases of child’s play
 the staff see her and she is suddenly attired in native spangles
Everyone understands the dance now
 the entire table of Persians join them
 the Africans on the other side of us, too
And me, I wax on
 about the bump and grind
 with a generous tutor
A beautiful woman entreats
 to dance with the dancer
 and share in the speech
O happy buzz, good–natured delirium
 The things we are saying this Saturnalia
 I am always hearing them
Thank you, hookah, magic lamp,
 who cleans the substance’s impurities
 and turns smoke white
for the young maiden’s sweet grace
 and a pleasant night