ANDREW SANO - POEMS
I want to whisper into a bee’s ear about heroes
when a megaphone might make more sense
by last week’s reckoning, so I pause, balked.
Who has a groundhog or almanac for this?
It’s too new to be weather. I pine for snow
to come bury these random squalls of concern.
How ductile are we? I wonder, grinding on
senses that haven’t been counted, even
the clock that doesn’t tick talks back now.
We are bad company, I want me to leave.
Levity seems in bad taste yet it’s so badly needed.
Everybody knows how to spell awkward now,
nobody likes the way it looks. We argue over holes,
their size and precise location, ripping maps from
a lost world’s questions hoping answers translate.
At the ocean, it rains, thinning the salt briefly
in spots, here and there, though neither grows jealous,
raises a fuss, or even remotely remembers.
Today's not like last Tuesday
or the one before that,
which was like the one
before it somewhat,
which was nothing
like any of the Tuesdays
that came before it
that I can remember,
but my Grandmother could've.
I wish she was here,
alive again but also
so she could tell me
what kind of Tuesday
I recognize awkward in a poem
which is not ballet to me.
I know a real face when I see one
and can feel the tremble of
a spirit in the midst of despair,
unretouched by kohl,
whistles in the dark
or the tint of roses
stolen from those
with a job to do.
I don’t need to
darken the night sky,
celebrate a crime or
try to cover a grave
with a nightingale’s song.
Life sometimes loses
the melody but I
still listen to every note
whether I like
the tune or not.