Morning goes across a small, dark pond. The pond goes across the color pink. The color pink goes across the mind of an early walker. The early walker goes across the page of human mind, endlessly turning. This turning goes across the mourning dove who watches from above, in the branches of the frou-frou mimosa. The mimosa goes across geological eras, carrying itself with feminine self-possession. Self-possession goes across my mind briefly, but then I am all these things again. I am the memory of a coffee spoon on a crosstown bus. Where did I leave myself again?
A door draws my mind into the idea
of an ideal room behind. It becomes heedless,
totally blind, to the real knob in its palm.
But reality is bland, my hand thinks, jejune.
Now, who the hell on earth listens to a hand?
The blank page is the greatest poem.
It has no assumptions, no skew of thought.
It is bare but fertile. This novelty of space
has contracted to a moment of attention
which could be anything. You look at it
with the recognition of life for its nemesis,
which it impossibly hopes to seduce.