Quiet Woman

When quiet woman
appears she fills my ears
with morning glories.
Morning glories
grow out of my ears —
big blue trumpets
in those soft canals.

My hearing is better
than a geezer's,
but the dog howls
when the telephone rings.
I cannot answer
with a flower in my ear.
With a flower in my ear,

I hear only wind
and the scuttle of trinkets
she tosses my way:
charms, glimmers, scars,
bits of beforetime
words and, erelong,
worn ones for renewal.

The clichés come
to be redeemed,
the ancients amain
(at full speed) to be
reclaimed, offering
both shrift (forgiveness)
and swevens (dreams).

First published in Green,1988; revised 2024
Homage Travel Stories & Essays | Poems | Contents At-A-Glance