“You must become an ignorant man again
And see the sun again with an ignorant eye
And see it clearly in the idea of it.” -Wallace Stevens
Fingers more attuned to nubs than actual lanky digits, hands asleep and tingling forever to indicate the pleasurable slumber designed for potential prey trapped inside spiderwebs, held to power lines and splitting shadows to populate the sidewalk with thin darkness.
Poets have been tasked to explore mornings and lambaste those ignoring the Cock’s Crow for pillow fluff. Granted…Robert Frost was recognized as a noon-sleeper. His verse is the last in pop-culture to follow a metered rhythm, type of words which pull the awkward child off the bench at the school dance and prance them about the gym floor.
Has the dance ended? Is free verse the immortal cave painting, an opportunity to dip fingers inside globs of paint and polka-dot the canvas of the new day. Nah. Morning simply codifies what we’ve left behind, placed like memories, or discovered like Beowulf, inside the tombs of royalty at the behest of all our pleasure. Nah. Poetry is the new day. It’s for everyone to experience.
…take a sip of coffee…
…ignore the metal cacophony of traffic rapture…
Pick a dandelion, spit on its bud and use it like a soaked brush to paint the town yellow as the Sun goes up and down.
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