Benign engraving, tree on sky, dark blue
(My wife comes down, starts coffee, give-me a hug,
Eager to go upstairs.) I glance, and who
Has sucked some color from the sky? The lug
That lurks unrisen sub-horizon. Orange
Creeps along the line, as if to laugh
At how the heavens drop dark zero, cri-i-inge
(Flaccid dome) to daylight's Golden Calf
Of atmosphere. We're halfway through December,
Humans; hoist on high - twelve thousand crumbled
Months this arbitrary arrow, `member?,
Nimbly zips, will never reach, `tis mumbled. . . .
By now it's seven. Look at that: the rose
Grows south of us, a slightest moment's pose.
Two thousand circles `round the sun let's say,
Beginning with the (slightly fudged) debut
Of some Messiah, makes a roundelay
Through which the ear might cop an overview.
A thousand down: Medieval murk; our arrow
Carries on - Columbus cracks the nut.
Divide again: the broken shell Ameri-
Ca. Anther whirl and whack, and zut
Alors, postwar prosperity.* Once more:
Well, 1968. We're still not "there."
The "song" is tuneless, scrambling to the door
But mired in a short division/) jumbled air.
The "last" few chops now going on, the level
Tilts; "it's" never-dawning; what the devil -
"I've never seen infinity," the hep-
Cat cowboy croaked, "but I can tell you any-
How, I'd rather see than be `one.' Yep."
Perhaps he warn't so hep. No sabe. Penny
For your thought(s). Illusion's never fair (fall)
(She said, mit gravitas). Who's halfway talkin'
Now? `Tis I. But I ain't here (nor there),
I'm just, invisible; I'm walkin' (on a ball)
But meanwhile concrete fills the picture-frame.
Reflector Jenny ambles in the kitchen,
Takes a tin of cookie-dough (no name)
To cook the Christmas cookies with one rich `n'
Famous day. She turns to me with peeled
Eyes; we kiss (we feel electric field).