NOT IDEAS ABOUT THE THING BUT THE THING ITSELF

At the earliest ending of winter,
In March, a scrawny cry from outside
Seemed like a sound in his mind.
 
He knew that he heard it,
A bird's cry, at daylight or before,
In the early March wind.
 

The sun was rising at six, 
No longer a battered panache above snow.
.
.
 
It would have been outside.
 

It was not from the vast ventriloquism 
Of sleep's faded papier-mache.
.
.
 
The sun was coming from the outside.
 

That scrawny cry--It was
A chorister whose c preceded the choir.

It was part of the colossal sun, 

Surrounded by its choral rings,
Still far away.
 It was like
A new knowledge of reality.
 

Biography | Poems | Best Poems | Short Poems | Quotes | Email Poem |

Poems are below...