Morning Star

This isn’t the end. It simply

cannot be the end. It is a road.

You go ahead coatless, light-

soaked, more rutilant than

the road. The soles of your shoes

sparkle. You walk softly

as you move further inside

your subject. It is a living

season. The trees are anxious

to be included. The car with fins

beams through countless

oncoming points of rage and need.

The sloughed-off cells

under our bed form little hills

of dead matter. If the most sidereal

drink is pain, the most soothing

clock is music. A poetry

of shine could come of this.

It will be predominantly

green. You will be allowed

to color in as much as you want

for green is good

for the teeth and the eyes.

From “This Art: Poems About Poetry,” edited by Michael Wiegers (Copper Canyon Press: 168 pp., $12 paper)