Tonsils

At what juncture does the act of poetry 

Take place? Or, the beautiful wet day

Prompts what. It is not like a complicated idea.

But it is not like a song, either. It is not quite

The sex-act, nor the deposition, nor the act

Of sitting in a very dim and carpeted room 

And just listening. The act of poetry is very easily

And very happily transmuted into any of these, though,

And will there become lost, say, in the doing

Of better things— things, certainly, which rely less on

Esoteric spiritual forces. When you drive home

From work at night, down a fast road with no 

Street lamps, the headlights to your left are not cars 

But signs of cars. The moon remains only a sign 

Of the lunar. Are we called to poetry by our mothers?

By fabrics, rich tastes? Must one glare at life

With a dire expression and say to it, “Take me swimming”?  

When you have set the keys down on the table,

All things implying and circulating,

All things summing to the first frost’s sign,

You may at last cup your hand over the flame 

And await the morning of the poem.

(more writing)