Easy: Poems

THIS BRIDGE, LIKE POETRY, IS VERTIGOIn a time of dearth bring forth number, weight, & measure.—WILLIAM BLAKEDescribing the wind that drives it, cloudrides between earth and space. Cloudshields earth from sun-scorch. Cloudbursts to cure earth’s thirst. Cloud—airy, wet, photogenic—is a bridge or go-between;it does as it is done by.It condenses. It evaporates.It draws seas up, rains down.I do love the drift of clouds.Cloud-love is irresistible,untypical, uninfinite.Deep above the linear city this morningthe cloud’s soft bulk is almost unmoving.The winds it rides are thin;it makes them visible.As sun hits it or if sunquits us it’s blown awayor rains itself or snows itself away.It is indefinite:This dawns on me: no cloud is measurable.Make mine cloud.Make mind cloud.The clarity of cloud is in its edgelessness,its each instant of edge involvingin formal invention, alwaysat liberty, at it, incessantly altering.A lucky watcher will catch itas it makes big moves:up the line of sight it liftsuntil it conjugates ordissipates,its unidentical being intactthough it admits flyers.It lets in wings. It lets them go.It lets them.It embraces mountains & spires builtto be steadfast; as it goes onit lets go of them.It is not willing.It is not unwilling.Late at night when my outdoors isindoors, I picture clouds again:Come to mind, cloud.Come to cloud, mind.LASTWaste-pipe sweat, unchecked, has stained the floorunder the kitchen sink. For twenty yearsit’s eased my carelessness into a mean soft place,its dirty secret dark, in a common place.Today the pipe’s fixed. Workmen rip up the floorthat’s served and nagged me all these good/bad years.They cut and set in new boards, to last for years.House-kept no more, I waltz out of the placeclean-shod and leave no footprint on the floor,displaced and unfloored. This year, nothing goes to waste. TV, EVENING NEWS—seen on CNN, autumn 2005, AfghanistanIt’s a screenful of chaos butthe cameraman’s getting good framing shotsfrom behind one woman’s back.The audio’s poor. The shouts are slices of noise.I don’t know the languages.No hot hit heroes are there.No wicked people are there.Achilles is not there, or Joshua either.Rachel is not there, nor Sojourner Truth.Iwo Jima flag boys? not there.Twin Towers first defenders? not there.My children are thank God not thereany more or less than you and I are not there.I safe screen-watch. A youthyoung in his uniformsignals his guard squadtwice: OK go, to the tanksand the cameramen: OK go.The tank takes the house wall.The house genuflects. The tank proceeds.The house kneels. The roof dives.The woman howls. Dust rises.They cut to the next shot.The young men and the womanbreathe the dust of the housewhich now is its prayer.A dust cloud rises, at onewith the prayer of all the kneeling housesasking to be answeredand answerable anywhere.