And now I am writing, in a smaller book.
But you can’t read it, and I will not talk about it yet.
And if my voice has made it to you, my small
persistent chirping, a cicada near an airport
—poets, we are happy with the dull clunk-clink
of the coin you choose to drop into the busker’s
open case, playing her feather touch
on gravity-tight strings of a red guitar
on the age scratched pavements of LA.
Although I am unsure if the municipality
allows street performers, I picture you,
on the footpath with the handprints
and shoe indents, the gold edged stars
set with a ground crystal of cement
—the telling is truer than the thing told,
and a man will beg and a woman will go off
in a huff and regret it all her life—
but you know that isn’t entirely true,
it can also play out opposite, or two
positive poles and a current won’t flow,
in the all day and night noise, the roaring
large transmission of industry, more than
poetry will ever achieve, the telling is truer
than what is being told. I am creating cavities
inside persistent noise to appreciate the quiets of poetry.