To Mike: Though You're in Florida
The polyurethane that tops our bar
awaits; it scatters and reforms all light
committed to its surface, light that I fancy
is confined in here as punishment, for lying
one time, perhaps, about a girl, for getting
caught in an earring at 9:15 (Toledo
in Tuesday quiet while the lake drives blankly
against the shore) and fueling reveries.
Light shouldn't be a dream. Light should just be.
A causeway for our eyes, commuting them
like sensible Hondas to their object.
It isn't so. But sometimes, a dry sun
attends to Wednesday meekly, makes all of us
keen, lovable, and free of criminal quanta.
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