WEBVTT

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I met with the class today,
and I told them that every once

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in a great while I fall
into something that I

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think of as wandering rhyme.

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This is one of those
poems, and it's quite new.

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And I may not know how to
read it yet, so I'll just try.

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"Milk."

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From time to time the
placid shrugs its shoulders,

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earthquakes for instance.

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But still the world depends
on placid things, resistance.

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The fire requires its trees,
the sea its hem of boulders.

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The wind without its holes
would howl in silence.

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For everything that
flares up, something

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lowers itself, digs in for an
existence in the long haul,

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slows.

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It may well be the
placid knows its worth.

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The cow whose calf
was taken eats again,

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but do not guess too quickly
at the meaning in the red hips'

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unbent squareness,
the large-jawed head

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half buried in the grass.

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With each fly's weightless
bite, the thick skin shivers.

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The placid, unlike us,
lives in the moment.

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Something must-- like
chairs or painted dressers

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on an Earth where loss is so
all present that we drink it

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without thinking, blue white
in its early morning glass.

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