CANTO 28 I hear a cricket
I
hear a cricketsingin’ in the tent.
It’s a September notion.
Jazzy light scats
on the plain cloth wall.
The campfire sifts distinctions.
Catching a late flick
with the actor’s mind open
a flaming improv at midnight.
Leaky oxygen masks
gleam where the soil
breaks open the groundwork
coughing up blackened caskets
that crack into jewels
set in phosphate frames.
The meandering brook
ripples but we got
flesh flood warnings.
Reaching or keying in
setting up an array
or seizing an edge
or a fringe
a drifting from the peak
it was all for this
that’s good why not
the blundering of a planet
to reach this abandon
clicking of a dolphin
to get a pink dahlia
in liquid oxygen
light-sensitive crayons
a gum eraser of party lines
a wandering attention
the hum of a fan that soothes
what we were talking about
a wrapper skipping across the goal-line
a coin-purse falling out of the mist
a fog glowing rose
with twigs dripping honey
in the moon of her hands
holding the clear open sky.