This is it. This is what reality hands you.
Leisure and lineaments, time
And the rudimentary forms from which
The mind manages to make the world.
Brace for the arrival of spiral galaxies –
Diminished Andromeda, a mini Milky Way –
When the automatic sprinkler system
Kicks on at eight.
The street shimmers. Frequencies
Collide in brass complaints,
Car horns and Hip-Hop,
Screaming tweens in flip-flops
Throwing water balloons,
Oaths and salutations,
The traffic cop blows his whistle,
Frampton Comes Alive.
If the slices of a pie –
Sausage, pepperoni –
Were rearranged by an unseen hand,
They would still comprise a circle,
O voluptuous shape!
Jeter’s bat describes an arc
The ball can’t comprehend;
The ball traces a trajectory
The right-fielder cannot grasp.
Euclidean cones packed with French vanilla,
Daisy Dukes and their attendant hemispheres,
The rhomboids, the rectangles,
The Mustangs, the Hummers.
Through the convex of a contact lens
Or the unassisted eye,
A uniform sun explodes in spectrums
On the neighbor’s lawn.
It’s hard to say
Where these blueberries fall
On the optimum ripeness
A grief of clouds
At half past five
Makes a shambles of
Centuries of science have made possible
The following observation:
That satellite now rising above the trees
Has the same mellow hue
As corn on the cob.