Every Day I Want to Fly My Kite

Peter Gizzi

Give the world
to the world,
time to the flood,
give ash to gardens
and grain to trees.
I am not cowed
by the superlative
nature in trees.
I am lifted
and see petals opening.

Give the freckled ground
to sun,
give sepulchre
to sky
to song.
I am not one
to disregard thrush,
diminish sparrow.

Give the arrow
to lovers,
night to lavender,
lavender to sleep,
to wing
to want
to wound
to wonder
the night’s watch
to the optical dawn.

Give water to stone,
stone to echo.
In the mosaic
the dove’s wings
are made of bits
and stone.
The world is like this.

If I saw it
I felt it.
If I felt it
I learned from it.
And when the stars
enter the horizon,
that’s Tuesday gone.

The moon
the silk
the corn
the rail.
I felt this and
it stuck to me
one midnight.
I was mewling.
I was alive with fancy
and silk and stuff.
I was stuffing for a chair
a doll.
I was blinking
and crying and.

Now the word
falling.
Now other rains.
Now organics
cyclones and seeds.
The deadly swoon
in strength and
with color
and the sound
of crows and
their platinum sheen
feeding the sky.
Flames and greatness
towing the names.

Give home
to the horizon,
horizon to mystery,
mercy, meaning.
I thought I
might try to
head out
the door.
The door.
It doesn’t
matter.
I go as long
as I go and if
you’re there
to sparrow.
Sparrow.