Sunday

We manage so much without the poets
As for instance washing our hair
Or listening to houses—

It’s all a lark this living.
Me? I see and do not see
As blind people do.

Yellow bird I don’t know
What you are—this morning
Early, you were here

Poised like a dream face.
Though nothing in your life concerned me
I touched the window.

Life continues this way.
Many years ago
I met a shaman in Lapland.

He smelled like smoke
Though he did not smoke.
No poems for a hundred miles.