| Ear to the Ground
Din of two a.m.—sash scrape, faucet click, bronchial wheeze, stool creek, flapped sheet, power-box hum as the street comes up, earth starting to open, night not letting up, doing its dutiful rounds with billions of waves collecting out of earshot. O impossible orb of oceans, Himalayas, brook trout low-voiced and humble we pray to you, god out-of style, begging you to stay the course. Coddle us, let us last while we tinker the elements a little longer. We never thought, in hot and heady first days we would end up like this: chew of the trash trucks, frogs with amputated legs, albino watermelon, with nothing to minimize the din (though pigeons, we admit, still ply the puddles in Morningside Park); but, in hopeful mode, we beseech for a tilt of the hand, yours on ours, but not too warm, just right. |