Anything becomes a poem. My old friend
Chews lustily speaking of Chekov
And I think he’s eating
Lawrence’s “mystic” fruit:
an apple
becomes mystic when I taste in it
the summer and the snows, the wild welter of earth
and the insistence of the sun…
Now after rain, early spring, hop-scotching birds,
avian imperfect, mystic the wild ordinary.
