The purple-brown-black-copper-colored leaves of the plum,
the scent of
the lilacs...
the young girl in white, without shoes, racing
uphill,
a couple, her light skirt over tights, strolling...
people
standing
without nattering impatiently
while the frail old
ones
-- of which I am one --
slowly-s l o w l y board the
bus,
the gnarled mechanic, blue-jeaned from neck to ankle,
with
bright red socks in Birkenstocks:
these are my world
my novel
I
cannot stitch them together.
Why must I write?
Born an American,
I am too restless
even on the brink of eternity
to just wander,
enjoy.
I am compelled
to do
something.
Therefore,
I write this novel
bridging nothing,
containing
elements,
only elements:
zinc, sulphur,
copper,
plutonium
fused together
by an eye,
by the ecstasy of
being
in the sunshine
beneath the
roiling drift of the
cottonwood's cotton:
turbulent stars
against the brilliance
in a featureless sky.
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