Solstice Poem


the sun sneaks into my dim room early
things are quiet, the quiet is quiet

it waits so long before it goes down
then slowly, like a lover sinking

tuning the old radio, whose patina
guarantees its place, in this quiet cottage

the lake so still

soon perhaps a moon on the water, 
idiotically beautiful the way tableaux line up

the radio not finding the channels so good, 
it won't behave, 
my hand a poor slave to the taste in the throat 
women bring

a day of such hours 
could make a difference in my habit
of getting close, the silky boney frictions

the calendar's mute distance, 
a disturbance of bands,
so many romances, their so many hands


	 
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