I stand in the corner,
by the bay,
my hat open,
being filled with sun,
with invisible moon.
Collecting something
for the hunger of my hands,
to hold the roundness
of the world,
or feel the face of an angel,
or paint with the ocher
of a rising dawn.
In the hat goes all things,
as if wide enough
for a mountain,
or a bird to fly,
a shadow to find its host,
a fire seeking warmth.
Big enough
to hold an atom,
ignored by everything,
a ring for the finger of a star.
So I stand and wonder,
holding a cap,
a beggar,
or a man wanting the sky
above him,
looking for the road
to the north.
Birds flying over the bay,
the father that once was,
still is,
never leaving.
How do the words explain anything?
Take my smile, girl,
and say I love you.
Use my earnest expression ,boy,
having taught you nothing.
Old man,
go on in your wandering
lest you become me.
I’ll stay awhile at this airless corner,
think about the woman
with the poet child,
and the work to be done,
and discover something
later in the morning.