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Too Busy
by Robert Manaster

Sometimes it hurts to look for memory
Since all the fallen posts are scrapped miscues
Of effort outside a bedroom window
Where shades of lazy April drizzle remind
Me of a warmth to come— when hands are free
To hold and be held. Yesterday, below
A sky's cobalt glaze, trees were tangled, blinds
Were slivered open like wounds on network news.

I need to make up memory, cover a bruised
Sky by knowing smells of coffee grinds
In winter kitchens at dawn: A tepid glow
Through windows dulls the cozy darkness, steeps
The musty air like an angel's step and finds
The far wall blank like mournful eyes. I flow
Under the poise of trees. I move suffused
In stains like remnants of wet, winter leaves.

I forge ahead, abstain from old age like snow
In windless mid-fall. To stray then settle grass,
Dream water into roots: Soon, I'll start
To listen to a snow angle then grade
Aside, float-fury up and down. These snow
Patterns will age like unrepentant partings.
They'll frost my panes, surrender a blue shade
To wind. Still, I must follow the scraped passing.









 

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