For John

For John*

The windows of the world are milked over
with the handprints of smallmen’s delights,
of jelly, peanut butter, religion, government,
money, misery, desire,
whatever.

Where sun once sliced through clear panes,
the morning knives cut rays to stones,
ours is an autumn ofonly dull, diffused days,
all leaf lines
melding.

Whereare the men among the people,
yes, the people
cominga’washing with human poems,
with prophetic baptismal flannel rags,
wiping smears clean with elbow gr...