At Schönbrunn on the Last Sunday Afternoon in June 04
I want to rest on this day,
lie flat on it and let it
hold me up.
Want to sprawl out all over this day.
Write the words to a poem that no one will read.
From the fountain,
a single jet of water
shoots up silently and falls back down
to smack on the cement or metal or whatever it is.
Churchbells donging chaotically over to my right
in the spike of the steeple
under the cross
under the crawling gray and yellow sky.
Don’t want to “do” anything today.
Too lazy crazy to write much today.
The literature I promised the world?
I’m dragging it out slowly,
a chain of jewels from the center of my chest.
© Labyrinth 1999