Adventure in Solar Newness

Languidly, I crossed
the quadrangle then passed
into the commodious 
casket for grasshoppers,
not knowing exactly 
what I wanted to say.
I came to a hallway.
Out the door you
always hung your head 
as in a love affair 
with the air. I said, 
you surely do look 
abracadabra in your suit,
an adverb you advised
I use for my rhythm 
when it needed shoveling
or god. You smiled, 
as if snow was falling 
on the Parthenon. 
Sitting in those chairs 
evening light made 
look like a dream,
we talked about loafers
and nuclear cigars.
Then, from the mantle, 
you took a giant tome. 
I thought but didn’t say 
it must get lonely
to be the only 
careful hand
who knows how to wait 
for a door to arrive. 
To think, yes, 
the heart’s a spider, 
how wonderful 
to survive on air. 
To be octagonally green.
To be the inherent listener. 
Now, that constant 
humming sound 
is like the postcard 
of three wooden mice 
pinned above your desk. 
Or it’s the air conditioner, 
a device I’ll never understand.
Or it’s time, reminding us 
how simple death is—
just six ounces of oxygen.
For many years, I went
to school with you 
in the palm of my life,
observing the laws 
of disappearance.
Now, some mornings, 
I sit in the park 
to see plants grow, 
feeling sad but also happy.
The ears of the perennial 
grasses are totally green.
The tulips get taller. 
A little radio playing 
means people are grilling
vegetables to share. 
What I know for sure is 
I’ll always be the same 
age as my body as much 
as I love any hairbrush
or typography. Birds,
they never get lost, 
they’re never like oh,
people are wonderful, 
the sky is wonderful, 
I like this blue best.
Nor are they ever 
generous with their time. 
Then the little things. 
Clouds plus the idea 
of friendship. Whitman,
the egoist. Istanbul. My father 
watering the fig trees
in that early summer light.
And your voice, telling me
go down to the river.