​Sometimes (but only when you are you)
You open up (even if you
Were not you) and even if
You were shopping on McDonald Avenue

A song starts playing in your brain
(And even if the words are silly,
If you come to the end of the words,
You will reach a line that makes you chilly,

That makes you stop, that hits you in
Your solar plexus. And you do
Not know, not for many years, 
That a cord connects each blue to blue).

​So we put this camera on a weather balloon
And watched it, live, below, it gave
A sense of vertigo and then
A certainty, and with a brave

Flair we disparaged creeping
From street to street and alley to alley,
The traffic jams, we were here
Above the city and in the valley,

And we could see-down below—how everything looked,
The entire flow of the city, and dots
That might have been us—and we looked around
And saw in the field the forget-me-nots.

​“You can understand that when I discovered a snake
In the basement stairwell, I cleaned the debris,
I had been afraid for the baby, now I cleaned
The furnace, so that it would burn cleanly,

“Without blowback.” The National Geographic
Tells about a mountain and
A cave, poison air and rubble,
And a stream that pours down to the strand.

​Hello! So you would like to clean out the basement
And clean the gutters on the roof?
There is that something about a spring day
That makes me feel worry-proof,

One of those days when the squirrels and
The spiderwebs, the winter creeper
Seem at peace, most of all
The rough-legged hawk, sinking deeper.

​(There are centipedes in the basement,
I don’t want to upset you, but how will we ever
Feel at home upstairs? I mean,
In the living room, we’re charming and clever,

And have been for so many years. It would
Be nice to regain that space, to see
What’s down there, old relics, embarrassing Childhood pictures, bric-brac, debris,)

I think we would feel more comfortable 
Upstairs. Throw open the windows and let
Some sun in here, you know, that crisp
Warmth that comes with the first violet,

Then everything is there all at once,
And even as they change, they are all
Still. We are walking through a world
Or a world is walking through us. The thrall

Is gone, a squirrel came through the window
And ate our bread. Across the street, 
The pine doesn’t move. It just seems more green,
The sidewalk’s old cracks in the concrete.

​From the core of the star everything
Is one: one thought, one value—a flow
Of photons, unending, a flow of truth,
A flow of faith, but what do we know

Here on the bottom, here where larvae
Blend and disassemble, pushing along
As a wriggling worm, avoiding harmful
Surfaces, and yet, this throng

In its urgency is free, 
Because every cause is bound to its end,
Because without the dark-winged fungus
Gnat, the shadows would descend,

The soul would decay, but when the sun
Billows light, the larvae do not
Make us squirm, and that blends knowing
The sun and the forget-me-not.

​The rain is coming down and water
Is rising from an aquifer.
Two flash flood streams bash together,
Even as they tumble, they’re astir,

White waters thrashing against each other,
Until they soar over the cliff,
Until they land in a seething pool,
Amidst roots of pines, tall and stiff,

And the muscled waters flow
Where the bears fish for trout,
“Happy are they!” who have such a stream,
Until even the frogs in the mud come out.

​Rain fell last night, in the morning
Water was bubbling through the rich
Soil. Imagine reclaiming your life,
Including a broken lightbulb, which

Was lying in the sand, and walking
Back from the beach, and the walk
To Brighton Beach on Saturday morning,
All of that was the start of an awk-

Ward zigzag crawl and leap. “I will place
My words in your mouth, I will cup
You in my hand, I will plant galaxies
In the sky, I will flow the Andean up-

Per Amazon in Peru, and kiss
My hills goodnight.” And the river
Is flowing in my brain, the shore,
The cliffs, in pools the small fish quiver

Beetles ride upon leaves, and the vast
Glimmering current surges across
Its land, and the water evaporates
And saturates the fields and moss.

​The lab is painted beige. However,
Its large windows allow a lot 
Of sun. It’s a dingy neighborhood,
If each person would only tend his plot

Of land or rebuild the mayor’s mansion,
If only the fishing boats again
Were swaying in the swell. The sleek,
Silver albacore flicker, but the men

Have left their boats moored. The silver
Rain will come, rivulets
In the streets, puddles in the fields,
Puckering the sea; the nets

On the boats glinting, the barometer falls,
The pine needles shine, and then the bird
Singing, the stores open, children
In rubber boots and puddles blurred.

​The first rule of life is that up isn’t down.
Why not? Well, it’s better that way.
You may think, how much more
You would get done, but anyway

That’s a done deal. Without it,
Who would carry the groceries up
The stairs, or go downstairs to clean
The furnace? There’s a lot you can fit in a teacup

With a good strainer. Well, now things
That are impossible are impossible,
But inside them you can see those wonders,
A star is hiding in a scribble.

Out of the darkness comes light. Yes,
It’s dark to you and me, and to
The mantis shrimp. On an endless ocean
A figure rows in a canoe