Time on Earth

I.

Nights under these stars, you
try to identify old constellations.

Casseiopiea, Andromeda, the mythic forms—
you half forget their stories.

But on warm nights, seeing them,
your throat also fills with shapes of hymns

someone’s holdfast tunes
to which your words are also blurred or blurring.

II.

You read somewhere about Phsyologus,
mythic Greek cosmologist; one namer of a given universe.

You also borrow someone’s Audubon,
then wander trying to match

shoots in damp mulch
to names. Unfurling, embryonic

joe-pye; skunk cabbage; jack in the pulpit;

You note new maple fractals, leaves shining as broken
glass in forest air—

After lunch you dream
an orrery of leaves and bones.

You do not know bird that goes tow-hee or cali-cut.
You pronounce the book-names

to feel their pleasure on your tongue—
earthstar, clubmoss, vibernum.

III.

Beyond you, one or another city;
constellated light-map on the ground.

Oil-drums; downed tankers; spirochetes;
terrorists; radios; laboratories; specimens;
ice-cream trucks; parking lots and hopscotch;

methamphetamine; medical waste; elaborate cheese;
pandemics; global economic crisis.

You burn your newspaper on cold mornings
watching its blue green flame.

This is not forever. But also you think
this is my time on earth.

Waking, you find a thumb sized tree frog climbing
your porch screen— underbelly

shaking, limbs prehensile, grappling
body open to all elements, scrambling

borderland, exchanging
atmosphere at every point; live thing,

fascinated elaborate suspension
you lose yourself in watching;

Delightedly, mind aloft, you call
A frog! A frog! out to the rustling woods.

And this is all.
O wriggling climber.
You rejoice for the frog.

Stupidly, also sadly, you
sing your own bright springtime song.