sun, so generous

i am not it, but will endeavour to receive.

to drink whatever light falls through
canopies bejeweled. to turn       a face,
offer shoulders for the sun to polish.

perhaps we could walt whitman this.

and name: the ficus, the frangipani. all
count       towards a bliss restored, renewed
dispositions for embraces. i read: the air

is blue. not a single cloud is dying. or if,
then glad, rendered onto. we call it:

spring – a time

to grow into grass blades, the clear
glockenspiel of children around,
around. this joyous thing does require

practice. in large amounts, carved out
of misery, the dark – what if absolutely?
what if celebrated? shall i welcome

what invites itself on the field? start

small. start        here. with a mouthful.
with cherry tomatoes. the red
roof of the mouth clicking. sonorous, he

repeats, repeats: that living is
the best revenge.

perhaps, this time, he’s right.

Renaissance I
Things to Remember on Bad Days