|Ear to the Ground
Din of two a.m.—sash scrape, faucet click,
bronchial wheeze, stool creek, flapped sheet,
power-box hum as the street comes up, earth starting
to open, night not letting up, doing its dutiful rounds
with billions of waves collecting out of earshot.
O impossible orb of oceans, Himalayas, brook trout
low-voiced and humble we pray to you, god out-of style,
begging you to stay the course. Coddle us, let us last
while we tinker the elements a little longer.
We never thought, in hot and heady first days
we would end up like this: chew of the trash trucks,
frogs with amputated legs, albino watermelon,
with nothing to minimize the din (though pigeons,
we admit, still ply the puddles in Morningside Park);
but, in hopeful mode, we beseech for a tilt of the hand,
yours on ours, but not too warm, just right.