is it the time yet?

the things one runs across running wet through stranded wood.

the brother stood staring,

looking toward a lake

that began swimming

only after another direction was pooled off.

instantly, two other reflections overtook his eye.

IS IT THE TIME YET?

somewhere inside the impression of some trees,

out where storm birds circled

lonely flutes looking for harmony,

brother at last sunk away from the trailing smoke

that had followed him all his gifted life.

could it be

he had found rest,

not individual solitude,

but all that commences

after eyes close for the last time?

(the witness trees stand in deep thought)

IS IT THE TIME YET?

instead, he had unlocked a frozen junkpile

growing sideways

off a horizontal sycamore

just off to the right of the only remaining

direction left to see out from, where

(as everywhere) deckhands lingered with mops,

paused to wash away colors.

and while he went searching for that last speck of light,

his eyes closed up tight.

in darkness now

everything froze,

and the only remaining scrap

slipping from his fingers,

lining the holes in his pockets

was the last prayer book

not cashed in for a breathing mask.

IS IT THE TIME YET?

and as the words forming were as clear as pinpoints,

he knew everyone was terrified of how much he wanted from what

all commonly shared together:

BLINDNESS

(what else is one to do when one is the sun)

ALL THE PEOPLE

LEAVES THOUGHT OF

FROZE TO THE TREEPOLE DARK CELLARS TO HIDE IN

then all at once the last vagabond marine

dropped from Kenneth's ear.

“Thanks for this moving verse, pal"

pointing to this steel grey cannon

rushing down a knoll

directly towards him!

IS IT THE TIME YET?

“Are there any more cellar holes left to hide inside?”, asked one of the blind deckhands.

“There’s no room for you, but that fella there standin on your head can join us anytime.”

“No thank you”, the poet meekly smirked, and Christ,

his eyes began to flap up and down:

dark-light-dark-light.

“so we can continue to vote in free open elections, could you please keep your eyes still?”, the lost sailors pleaded.

(the mechanism was really controlled by a lever he had swallowed in secret silence days before).

then, as Patchen threw up,

people danced everywhere,

frozen fields of flowers warmed again,

and even other seafaring children could see

no museums would be left for the world to remind itself

there were once other things beside answers.

NOW'S THE TIME!

Paterson

2/27/71