My upstairs neighbor asked
If, at the reading
I was to give
Would any
Of my new poems
Include a bit
Of the surrounding
Landscape,
And I said to her
No, I don't wirte
About that, but,
This was
A false statement.
I could have told her
Behind a certain house
In Illinois,
Is the beginnings
Of a prairie.
I loved
The subtle turnings
Of the word
Brown,
I loved
What a
Clumsy movement
Could toss up:
Feathers,
Survival tactics,
Dust
Slanted by
A mid-November's
Light.
And I could have spoken
On behalf of
The New York
Roof gardens in May:
Small tufts
Of Spring.
Near-secret outposts
Tucked within
A city's
Agenda.
I can't tell you why
Certain things make me
Hold my tongue.
I think the conversation
Dwindled
At that point.
Nervous laughter,
Then she walked
Upstairs.
Why wouldn't a poet
Want to broadcast
Such lush noise?
It was spring
In Virginia,
That particular year
A lovely meter.
It was senseless,
And when she missed
The reading,
Didn't I pluck
A stingy blossom?
Written by Cornelius Eady
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