by Dick Allen

    Air out the linens， unlatch the shutters on the eastern side，

    and maybe find that deck of Bicycle cards

    lost near the sofa. Or maybe walk around

    and look out the back windows first.

    I hear the view's magnificent： old silent pines

    leading down to the lakeside， layer upon layer

    of magnificent light. Should you be hungry，

    I'm sorry but there's no Chinese takeout，

    only a General Store. You passed it coming in，

    but you probably didn't notice its one weary gas pump

    along with all those Esso cans from decades ago.

    If you're somewhat confused， think Vermont，

    that state where people are folded into the mountains

    like berries in batter. . . . What I'd like when I get there

    is a few hundred years to sit around and concentrate

    on one thing at a time. I'd start with radiators

    and work my way up to Meister Eckhart，

    or why do so few people turn their lives around， so many

    take small steps into what they never do，

    the first weeks， the first lessons，

    until they choose something other，

    beginning and beginning their lives，

    so never knowing what it's like to risk

    last minute failure. . . .I'd save blue for last. Klein blue，

    or the blue of Crater Lake on an early June morning.