IN YOUR BOUNDLESS SPIRIT

Hours rest on your dream hands
John Ashbery
of a poet expecting cirrus clouds
in a sky of shining first light
empowers us
by his boundless spirit
when he is alone not in crowds
he knows a chorus of million lives
from his recalled posterity
in places before hidden shrouds
when his mood of archives
are deposited
full of enthralled charity
in a surprising
prolific stem of words,
somewhere a student is calling
out to your sunshine's reflection
along the Hudson
knowing how you intertwine
wings of enfolded birds,
with daws, sparrows, crows
as webbed paper cranes
rise by boats on first light
by a scullion thick river bed
delivering to him to watch
a mirror's weather vane
from a concave boasting complexity
in an outlined direction by a sphinx
on the artistically designed Coast
slipping through his Freudian fingers
in the solitude of experience
he thinks in the dexterity
of Plato and Socrates
amid white caves of feathers
and drinks a glass red wine
not expecting
any celebration of song
along the river
in a solitary catching twenty winks
meditating with a dictionary
on his pressing sentence
writing over his knobby knees
on a July 29th vacation day.