Morning Conversation

 

Now every engine sheds its gears.
the trumpets fake and render
bloated jazz. And the bitter undercurrents
grind in the unclutched mesh.

My visions go to the ocean,
my feet at the edge of the surf.
Sirens bleat on the boulevarde.
My coffee muddies my veins.

"Look," she says, "at your pockets undone
and your hair like the cedars of Oregon."
"Yes," says I, "but think of your wheels,
look at your own enterprise."

"Oh, the moon is all starch
and you've hidden your basket again."
"No," I replied, "you've ridden me wrong.
I'm inspecting the ladders today."

We study the difficult music,
slaves of the faultless machine.
The firmer we judge, the meeker we build,
dunked like pride in the waves.