What beauty brings
to mind,
being an equilibrated
constant in the calm calculus
of Mysteries all around,
needs no tele/micro-scope to find-
it’s under each/every rock/root/road
around/above/behind whate’er’s
within your sight/smell/touch.
This meagre much it seems
our lucky Chuck knows
well enough and deep.
A short-list of reminders
down did once he scribble
and in lint-riddled pocket still
he superstitious keeps-
where now and anon,
in various states of
foul and frictive fretting and
minor maladaptive malaise,
he uncrumples and idly peeps:
the high thermal glide
of birds of prey over
sun-stunned highways,
old sung myths strung
and ultimately preserved
in the wheel of constellations,
brown Brooklyn girls
doing double-dutch with
felicitous facility,
the raunch and romp
of unapologetic addicted
angel/whores to certain
songs throbbing through
the Tenderloin,
the sad, unswung,
lathed lumber on
the slumping slugger’s
shoulder in the
late October sun,
by the back stoop,
slug-slime shining
on dew-damp flagstones,
the smell of sleep
wafting up from
the bundled,
warm and wiggly
daughter drowsed
upon her fathers
knotty-knee...
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