Perhaps, in sun falling flatly onto
aluminum foil on the kitchen counter —
or in these azalia flowers showing off
their bouquet of fusia red blossoms; or
nibbling teeth of the mouse sneaking
sunflower seeds dropped by the birds?
Staggering up our alley to the recycling center
that skinny man hunched under a sack of cans.
Where are they hiding?
Lined up like clothespins, those pigeons on electric wires —
our morning toast and coffee, even TV pictures
flowing in currents under their feet.
In the finger you’re kissing, smarting from
lemon juice seeping under your bandage.
Maybe in the star dust on the
big C on Mother’s gravestone?
Come out, wherever you are?
In the callused hands of the girl rolling her
wheelchair, so determined to cross the finish line.
Where are you, magical words?
Words that’ll spin this pen into an
ecstasy of sensate feelings, lines, stanzas — blaze
shine like Hopkin’s shook foil —
gold vermillion for you, readers, here —
Come out, come out, damn it!
Ah! From sea salt I kiss off your lips;
scent of sky before a snowfall;
white communion wafer snowflakes;
Oh! Wind see-sawing bare-branched winter trees;
Oh! In the warning ignored by the drowning ice fisherman?
Come out, come out of the sizzling onions;
cracking of splitting logs, blood throbbing your veins,
dirt under your fingernails from re-planting geraniums;
Come out of the ozone after the storm and
oh oh oh so much to hold.
Open your hands, nay, you will need a basket,
nay, a wheelbarrow,
yes, into your breath, into your heart,
you have room enough.