Dolphins surge up and under.
Mozart's soprano
stitches the heart together.
Washes for a watercolor.
An ant crosses my foot. Wallace Klitgaard; Epitome of Splendor— ants, sun, one's lot. He typed it himself, showed it to me on the bus 38 years ago. He was grinning, the glad no age that we become, bent to making clumsy prayer.
Morning, Maine Honolulu
Early mist breaking on low tide, mud smell. Ducks, the small birds, the rooster down the road begin to sing the air, the light, the whole enormous chance
grateful as the old people reclaiming Pauahi Street, seeing each other in doorways after the night.
I Would
In 1948 I walked all the way to 14th Street to buy a bow and arrow. It was 30 cents; I had 29.
The woman sold it to me anyway and I was free and happy on Sixth Avenue as any Indian.
If I could find her tonight,
I would keep death far away.
For Anita Bartlett,
Too Late