An asparagus eating contest—
I thought I’d misheard.
Downstairs the rude old man
lays tile, makes demasiado noise.
I fell asleep at last around 5:30 am
and he woke me an hour later or so:
it is better I don’t look
at the clock. By this means
I clock my progress: I know now
it is sometimes better not to
know. I have midnight equilibrium
but it is gone by 3 am.
Thank you for Cloud of Sparrows,
man who wrote it. I read all night.
Thank you for the pen from Iran, Kamyar.
Its myriad stars have just run out of ink
eleven years on.
Thank you, sun, for leaf shadows
on horrible carpet in horrible box
I live in and for tree by which I mean
what’s living. I think of the gardens
I planted and left. I think of beets,
of beans and asparagus. Then
on the radio, hear the contest.
The noise of ten lanes of traffic
does not cancel the consolation
of seeing the wind
in the sweetgum leaves.
The experience of this
is my food and my sleep.
As at some strange customs,