Pleasures


I like to find
What’s not found
At once, but lies

Within something of another nature,
In repose, distinct.
Gull feathers of glass, hidden

In white pulp: the bones of squid
Which I pull out and lay
Blade by blade on the draining board

Tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce
The heart, but fragile, substance
Belying design. Or a fruit, mamey,

Cased in rough brown peel, the flesh
Rose-amber, and the seed:
The seed a stone of wood, carved and

Polished, walnut-colored, formed
Like a brazilnut, but large,
Large enough to fill
The hungry palm of a hand.

I like the juicy stem of grass that grows
Within the coarser leaf folded round,
And the butteryellow glow

In the narrow flute from which the morning-glory
Opens blue and cool on a hot morning.


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Pleasures