(IN THIS POEM YOU DON’T SEE WHAT’S COMING HENCE THE NAME)
Is life and life force so different
in all of us
that the mist from the trees
yet harvests the moon in a delta
true mesa of hard rock and lime?
What do the records say of the man
who was king here for more
than a day?
I want to be he who knows
when to stand and when
to run away through the wheat fields
and dew of many a blue day.
It isn’t the word of the satisfied man
that makes all the men of the manta
ray glue their tiny red oyster-clocks onto
the verge of the road.
COPYRIGHT BRUCE E SAUNDERS 2020