Poetry

Poetry


Its door opens near. It's a shrine
by the road, it's a flower in
the parking lot of the Pentagon,
it says, "Look around, listen,
feel the air." It interrupts
international telephone lines
with a tune.
When traffic lines jam, it gets out
and dances on the bridge.
If great people get distracted
by fame they forget this essential
kind of breathing and they die
inside their gold shell.
When caravans cross deserts,
it is the secret treasure hidden
under the jewels.

Sometimes commanders take us over,
and they try to impose their
whole universe, how to succeed
by daily calculation;
I can't eat that bread.


William Stafford

Posted over on Friends of William Stafford