Now this is what I feed myself: sleep,
in the nest of my feather bed; buttered
cream of wheat with goat’s milk and cardamom;
beethoven quartets, shimmering jazz;
renata tebaldi’s legs wrapped around
verdi. poems that bloom like roadside daisies:
jane hirshfield, seamus heaney
basho. rumi
white chrysanthemums in a blue vase
my fingers like warm wax around the barrel
of this pen; lined paper beaded with the
mercury of my heart. the peace of things;
their comfort, silently offered, their patient
giving. round plates with red and yellow rims
cobalt cups, hot as the kiln which fired them
the perfect heft of stainless steel forks
shallow ponds of spoons. the beauty–the
sturdy, honest beauty of things, ungelded
by tricks of light on water, innocent
of tidal undertow
