I sleep in the lounge/kitchen
because the bedroom is storeroom for paintings,
frames partitioning emptiness, and
primed surfaces waiting spectral scratches of art.
Forty years upright, unused
of it dual purpose, my bed is a fold out couch.
It stays open in the lounge, incompletely flat.
It is like sleeping on an open book
in the Giant’s castle, Jack, falling asleep
reading histories not found in the libraries.
The storm hits the south wall, grounding
earthy and real. Good anything thrills, pulls
from lethargy; and the beans lie flat in the gale.
A howling Antarctic resume´.
When Beauty appears in the Peasantry
or Genius walks among the Palestinians
don’t run to your king or president
with your clever Bean, you will lose them.
There are those who reach out and take
what they want, and those who wait
do triage. They are the ministers.
Added after; they administer;
they manage in a role which ages men,
they are the Man Agers.
Neither on the farm nor in the wilds,
random, like a stray dog, well bred,
but bored, I ran off, happy till it rained
and no one let me in.
Either in the forest or the field
I wonder of resistance, wonder of the log,
cut into a cord, delivered to your lawn,
but mostly of the flame, where it is, before
the match is struck. And the storm
and the acetylene
managed into atmospheres.
I’m going to say it
is how you consider your greens
in your garden do they consider Theirs
And Why Is It That
Is In the Legume,
Proper? For what
they Giants’ got
refer to Title.