This poem is called "Clouds of Willing Seen in the Bird Day"
and the title is from Gertrude Stein.
"Clouds of Willing Seen in the Bird Day."
I love it.
It's the best thing in the poem by far.
Amiable Monet in lieu of that at a now, postdated
like his eyes, crafty, a beaver's,
flush with the floating water lily fields.
And you?
Anybody more remote would be dead languaged.
You are nice library, nice library, sit.
Who hasn't been out of line for a long time
like the cooked spinach green boat in sunrise?
20 feet short of the wobble laid down by the orange sun low
in the emerald air of the sea.
It's so easy to difference and cumber,
an eyelet passed through to a little evil.
Boomerang of heart bone, winging into the dark refusal
of beauty.
What is special electrical railroad and anyone
that anyone should feel so wide open under the moon's
sudden cheekbones?
Scatter corn on the dock as the wild geese
pressed toward you on the languid lake,
their greeny platinum circles of evening.
What you cannot think will be your life.
My friend, Brenda Hillman, read this poem.
She said, you're so bossy.
You're such a bossy poet.
But I was talking to myself.
OK, give me a break.
Scatter corn on the dock.
and I'm the nice library, nice library, sit.
OK.
So.