Well-Dressed Sky
Like a flicked flea
This cold Wednesday
Tumbles across the room
Rights itself
And leaps again
Toward the warm blood
Of a passing dog.
The Sky’s arms
Are wide open, loving
Above the young naked elms
Promising full-breasted embraces
From the clouds.
There is no choice
But to turn from her charms
Carrying January’s heavy basket
With closed eyes
Don’t worry
About the crimes
Of the mind
That appear with
Appalling regularity
And scatter pure thoughts
Like dirt swept
Into a strong wind
It’s the hand’s violence
That violates
Not the brain’s
And the stickers
May yet be stripped
From this vine.
Joshua Kight
1/18/06