Verlaine said the poem slowly rises like the sun,
Spreads over the landscape, a bird that hovers,
Moves on to find and bless a pair of lovers:
The work of the sun is never done.

It loves the still, ardent, and the physical--
The house is closed--it climbs the stair,
And leaves its shaded footprints everywhere:
The always prowling word is never finical.

A vast impressionist, it mixes palettes--
You think you have the sunlight captured on a nude,
But it never meant to stay too long or brood--
Clouds pass by, and in a moment it forgets.

It dawdles with the minatory and the minuscule,
Spotlights a hidden bruise, a scar beneath the brim:
Someone beaten, slashed--Her or Him?
A realist as well, it does not join with any school.

Random rover, it wants to get most things just right--
Some days I feel it heating liquid in my pen,
The sunlit river flows a while and then < ...

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