the best thing’s to be quiet and listen.
the hush-hush of tires in the rain,
the saying rain, word for word
into the rhododendron.
the sound that’s a color of pleasant flesh
passing by pleasant flesh.
the crows at 4:30 cawing, “some place else.”
those other things you want
aren’t here. violent attachments,
explosions of language, force of wanting.
there’s no want here. everyone’s flesh
is full as if pregnant. the little feelings,
the light vowels. in summer it’s like a beach.
drifting like sand up the streets
wearing this earliest dress.
nothing to shock or chagrin.