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And one more from this book
of my own called "The View

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From The Porch."

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Again, utilizing that landscape
in a fictitious way, of course.

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Poetry is fiction.

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Doesn't mean it's not true.

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"The View From The Porch"
starts with a noise.

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[THUDS]

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[LAUGHTER]

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"Thud, thud.

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All the sores go blind and
over the basket of pears hover

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brief addicted fruit fly.

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The bruises on the
pears are also blind.

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The barn is blue, as far from
the Mediterranean as possible.

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You'd think the
residents' serious here,

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each one scattered
lonely as a cow pie.

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You'd think blood
in the rafters.

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But if you listen,
both ears closed,

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you'll hear a plow
parting earth.

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Closer, some worms
unburied, nervous.

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The chirpers are happy.

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The humans go about jobs
in barn, field or house,

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healing unhealing,
and sky again is

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admitted to the dumb lovely
dirt turned over and over,

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turning its worn yawn wide,
breathing, nearly alert."

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I think that poem was on the
poster of the folder announcing

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the reading.

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