a Golden Shovel after Kenneth Rexroth
Hard to remember there was a time
when the time there was was
enough. On Sundays I
did the crossword and walked
across slippery cobblestones in
an ivied city. That February
was icy and April brought rain.
I return there in my
dreams. They roil in my head
when the moon and Jupiter are full.
Do you need more proof of
the sleeping organ’s industry its
drive to manufacture its own
music based on the rhythms
of the marches we learned to like?
My brain, traveling snugged in a
skull, a walnut wrinkling in its shell.