From Little Hill, which will be published in April by City Lights.

I follow the sunlight around the lawn

With a ridiculous plastic chair

A chair has its task and performs it well

What is mine—listening?

I didn’t make a sound until I was 2½

I have to work harder because I am dumb

With cause to wade into water

I’ll take that shimmering

Over all the gold

Standards made by men

If obsolescence is inherent

Do I soak and savor

Or fear and plan

Knowing it will die

This feeling will die

The arbor is deafening