It is the morning light
that illuminates the pond.
Light on all things without vanity.
A morning where light had breath,
Phalaropes on water.
Yellow legs stirred insects up from the bottom,
swallowed in stout bills.
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The kooks around here
seem to mock
gaiety of music.
They prepare for rain.
If you do pass by Chopin or Strauss,
someone stoned will shit it.
Joanne was right
the books on the summer grass
are now on the shelves.
Oboe and clarinet cut through to the specter.
Jack's rose
his beautiful wire at the end of
his dancing naked crab God eyes blinking
dancing with the other dead poets.