Daily chores impinge, poking
Little subsets of clarity into the unutterable
Stink of thinking just as a philodendron,
Flexing, furls its tame blue fingers around a newel post
Or a doorjamb and is given to support and temper the wild both.
And somewhere a man keeps glancing at a watch, angry
With an identifiable lateness ticked off
In minutes so that he misses the minute
Particulars of a mockingbird's singular loud triads.

He would rather not be out this morning
Waiting for the bus that'll transport
Him, hatted and usual, to the job he hates.
The French triumvirate of métro, boulot, dodo
Breaks like a succession of tiny suns rising
Over a glorious day already too full of nouns, too full
Of nouns that work to congeal the beckoning stillness
That, once in motion, moves him into enchantment
And endless conversation: that ongoing effortless grant

To return to whatever is arriving.