January 21, 2007 : Morning Miracle



It’s morning.
The wind is rising and the rain is coming.
I read of a dead beetle on a foreign road—
I pictured it dirt—
Originally written of in Polish.
The vision of the sunlight reflecting off
Its hard green-bronze carapace is my own,
Three pairs of legs neatly stowed the poets.

I read of a man who lay by a pool thirty-eight years
Waiting; he was lame. What else was to be done?
I wondered about the number thirty-eight
That neither twelve nor three is a factor of.
It is a factoral prime and it is the number
Of slots on an American roulette wheel. John
Would not have known this. It is eight
More than thirty: a really long time to wait.

I wondered about his atrophied muscles
If suddenly some one said to him, Rise,
Take up your pallet and walk. It was the Sabbath,
A day of rest. The beetle could do it.
The man could not. Already in the outside,
Even in the dark, the pine warbler sings
In a world full of birds and miracle.