Sacramento O No

An asparagus eating contest—

I thought I’d misheard.

Downstairs the rude old man

lays tile, makes demasiado noise.

I fell asleep at last around 5:30 am

and he woke me an hour later or so:

it is better I don’t look

at the clock. By this means

I clock my progress: I know now

it is sometimes better not to

know. I have midnight equilibrium

but it is gone by 3 am.

Thank you for Cloud of Sparrows,

man who wrote it. I read all night.

Thank you for the pen from Iran, Kamyar.

Its myriad stars have just run out of ink

eleven years on.

Thank you, sun, for leaf shadows

on horrible carpet in horrible box

I live in and for tree by which I mean

what’s living. I think of the gardens

I planted and left. I think of beets,

of beans and asparagus. Then

on the radio, hear the contest.

The noise of ten lanes of traffic

does not cancel the consolation

of seeing the wind

in the sweetgum leaves.

The experience of this

is my food and my sleep.

As at some strange customs,

I declare.