Who named the days? Tell me who!
What god or beast?
Valhallan? Olympian? Jupiter’s priest?
What lion in what zoo?!
And why label the gloriousness
Of our sun-bound spins?
Our relation to the fire begins
And ends anew each day, nameless.
Your music is inside me, Joseph—
The wind in Cretaceous fronds soothing my mammalian mothers,
The pressure forming strings of iron in the earth
Around my burrowing fathers,
The skin under my flesh,
Wind in my chest—
Your notes echo
Bones bored like flutes, mere oaten reeds
To sound your serenades.
Chaucer, Eliot, Millay:
Poets have many things to say
To April. What would I say to it?
Nothing—it is a construct.
Yes, the moon turns,
The earth too (to dust),
The sun burns
Out days, but I distrust
All timeframes, the rigid
Collars of clock time
Dripping days digit by digit,
And the natural, cycling kind
Appearing to repeat, like April,
Like Friday, all coming alive,
But actually being new and making older, a mill
Grinding all things into grime,
Grimmer and gaunter grains
And after all
I guess that’s what I have to say to April.
Smash it, mash it, bake it in a pie—
White coats, clipboards, standing by;
Crash it, bash it, stand it on its head—
Smaller things are easier said;
Whack it, smack it, give it a thump—
Measure each mote of the insect’s jump.