Today is beautiful the birds singing
in the trees where they have landed or in the air when
they are going, the sun wrapping its fingers
around the earth like a lover’s nipple
and tweaking, the dirt smells of all the stock car
tracks I have ever been to and of all the fields
I have ever plowed coming up from the ground
and hanging invisible in the air with the grass smell
of all the football fields I have ever had
my face rubbed in, mingling with the heat waves
rising from car bodies in the sun like the heat
one sees over toasters shimmering on crisp Autumn mornings,
but it is Spring, and there should be no Autumn imagery in
this poem, this poem about life, about smells, about
vibrancy, about the dust motes I can raise like
little asteroids just by whacking the couch a good one,
about the light of the sun that gives those motes an aura,
a glow, a transcendence over their humble forms, a rebirth
into the dirt of the air, a falling to the rug, a life in
vacuums, in garbage, a life on dirt roads or asphalt
highways, on the bottoms of beggars' shoes, on the tops of
generals' eyebrows, in the nylons of naked prostitutes
gyrating on their beds in shady downtown hotels, the light,
the dust, the smells, the stuff of life that I
have so often failed to notice, even when it has come to me
like a friend, like my mother or father, like an old drunk
in a corner booth, like my brothers and sisters and wife,
like this Spring, which may be the fingers of the hands
of a god, or the absence of all hatred, or a bird,
cutting a path across the sun.