Whatever Is There
  
Sometimes I wish
I could make
a poem out of whatever
is there
use the tables
and chairs
the young blond woman
picking papers off the floor
pinched between two toes
adroitly handing them
to the young man at her table
where they are studying
maybe they are lovers
and he gets pleasure
watching her knee bend
her foot disappears
returning with a sheath
of white loose leaf
messages from the university
maybe something about
writing a poem
the drive to take
the shadow of the
ceiling fan
the black and white
photos on the walls
the cafe itself
and transform that
or as I heard last night
from Stanley Plumly
wreck, no
"Ruin it.
Art is made by ruining
the experience".
 
I guess that is
the only way we share
bringing something
out of the self
creates separation
there we are
language
not only
the bridge
but the void
the toes are lovely
the feet soft and
strong