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 at last set the keys on the table, All things implying and circulating, All things the first frost’s sign, You may cup your hand over the flame And await the morning of the poem.