LITTLE THINGS
Lord knows where I come from
to draw back into this canyon
carved by time’s dull knife,
my distance fenced with barbed
epithets, taunting a few town dogs
to howl in the moonlight.
At daybreak, a blacked-caped Junko
poses on the crimson-clustered twig
of the Red Bud beyond my window
and I think of Michael McClure
adjusting his reflection between
classes of poetry – while the busy,
female finches claim timber-space
in my eaves – little things that fit
and flutter with wild sweet grace.