The Way Out Is In

            In an oval world where
            points of view are eye-shaped,

            out of a round world, helpless,
            where even the hamburger has
            an accredited helper, dirt cheap,

            both hands on the steering wheel
            I drive alone slowly past
            frame houses with big porches, as if
            I could live in a world of neighbors

on porch gliders, and rock with them
behind a trellis on a scented evening,
behind and under wisteria,

greeting a couple
from the next house down who
happen to be strolling by,

while we all listen oval-eared
to the school-grounds’ distant echo
of the merry-go-round at the fair.

Solstice On the Way

They stand still, they glisten, the trees
high-crowned in the quiet woods
I turn my back on.

If I keep on whistling  or
humming  talking to myself
like this,        I won’t hear

who alights in a lofty
contained flurry, soft within
wind’s thin whisper

among the highest branches.
Whoever it is, happens
to be great, a great singer
like intimate lighting striking.

Suppose I cd hear the song
close enough to understand.
My footing would change,

change or charge me so I see
first (but not just) the ground path
then I see the paths

aimed for me