Sixty seconds to a minute, sixty minutes
to the hour, but nothing past that.
61. I have slipped off the clock.
Every second, minute, hour, day – a bonus.
Home runs. The record book. Mister October.
When you don’t seek the poems and
they find you, even if you’re asleep.
They slip into your dreams. First draft:
90% autobiographical and 10% art, but then
revised, that reverses. Poem and poet emerge.
seems absurd today walking on Duval Street
filled with tourists carrying drinks, riding bicycles,
buying souvenirs and t-shirts with Hemingway’s face.
Chaotic banyan trees growing in this place.
One season, without autumn, winter or spring.
My title is also the title of a poem by Wallace Stevens – one of many he wrote with references to Florida.
Kepler’s 1604 naked eyes saw the birth
of a star, actually that supernova was
the star’s death. With no telescope invented,
he watched the spiral galaxy’s Milky center
explode into night, 20,000 light years away.