LATE TO BEING FOUND

Now who gazes
at the eucalyptus tea cup
leaves at the back door
after being out raced
on my bicycle
hearing morning bells
on the hillside monastery
one forgets landscapes
that distance loves
to capture once
which is ours to lose
to contain a dialect
and gingerly photograph
of three visiting cardinals
with a singing  lesson
out on branches
over a country boutique
a poet names Mallarme
Whitman and Nerval
in a tremor of the wind
on the tall greensward dunes
under a poor mother's clothesline
I'm murdering bread
left for the birds
too late for the bus
and any ode to the schoolyard
not being in my metabolism
trying to slip away
in my own disposition
with large almond eyes
seeing a dog washed
by his blind walker and rescuer
near a tiny sail boat
on the home dock jetty
near becalmed waterfall
an unprepared shadow
of an East European actor
now on the Soaps
seeks his own absolution
in the fun mirror
of a traveling circus
near the railroad tracks
out of breath
and downhearted
by a thwarted memory loss
after the war and occupation
wants to remember his lines
and clean his fingernails
before the red lipped
curvaceous lion tamer
wielding a whip
with a Hungarian accent
like his own smiles
to make his day.