Free the Chickens
Years ago, I wrote a poem about a locust tree
blooming in the moonlight,
hunched under the wind
like a saxophone player under the song.
Now almost every day I see
a saxophone player with his song lost
in the subway's noise,
but I never see a locust tree
or the moon.
I know they still exist, though.
These days, poems rustle in my notebook
like frightened chickens in a cage.
Shoo, go, run away!
Run free, chickens, run free!
Chase the worms of the world,
mingle with the other things with feathers,
fall in love with the wrong peacock.
Make your nests in the armpits of political leaders
and hatch chicks to land on Mars.
Forget the locust tree, the saxophone, the moonlight.