Arrive here, and hold the morning quietly
In my eyes: Last night, the mockingbird
Was playing nightingale—I know, even though
I’ve never heard one. I let that go. Awake,
Listening, like Keats, I was lost—which means,
I suppose, that I was playing nightingale.
If you don’t know it, you should; it’s gorgeous
And you’ll never understand it. That’s the
Thing, the love. Surpass the random moment
And ask, What is this? What can it connect?
Take it, listen, hold it quietly in your eyes.
This is the morning after the singing bird.
Comments