I RATHER LIKE

having breakfast with Barbra Streisand

who bellows “On A Clear Day”

before my second cup of coffee—

I sneak off, stand on the porch.

a hummingbird tries to

dive into liquid in my eyes.  Barbra’s

singing of how clear days can astound. 

When was I last astounded?  Silence

can astound me.  A red poppy

with a black center too.  Or Barbra

going barefoot to meet Wang Wei

by the side of the shed,

that’s astounding, and I run

to join them.

THE POEM, SEEN NAKED, RUNNING OVER THE CITY BRIDGE

I think he’s the dog catcher

coming after me.  When people see

something move, why must they

put a net over it?  Maybe he’s not

the dog catcher.  He wears a uniform. 

Is he a cop?  I know I should have clothes on,

really, I do.  If it were winter, I’d snug up

in wool and wear plotchy rubber boots.  But

it’s almost 80 degrees.  Why isn’t everyone

naked?  I sneak behind a building,

catch my breath—looks like I gave him

the slip.  I must be getting home,

a shack between two letters

or silence between

stanza breaks. 

Try and find me. 

If you’re nice—

and don’t want to catch and dress me—

I’ll let you in.  We’ll have tea. 

Maybe Fig Newtons too.