The Dilettante's Lecture (POEM)

The Dilettante’s Lecture

Let me describe to you

  what I’m holding in my left hand:

These bright options,

  this series of pale promises

to be engaged, these diamonds too small to wear,

  glaciers miniaturized by grating time

until they slip and flow

  through one subtle fracture in the mind.

I find that in the singular, sand’s pure form,

  an incomparable crystal, a sparkling gem

like the verb “to care.”

Dare I add, I prefer it by the handful?

  That way there seems to be more.

The trick is to keep it ever moist and malleable,

  dampened by an inlet of waves

lapping on the morning shore.

Take yesterday.

  I made a perfect heart and set it out to dry.

Come sunup

 And we both cracked, cracked and crumbled

Like a pile of sifted flour

 tumbling before the crust.

We blew directionless,

  north, south, east, west.

I have here a large bucket of jewelry

  awaiting your appraisal. Yes!

I’m consenting to one more test!

You say it’s worthless!

  But it started out heavy and grew heavier.

I held it for so long it was beginning to seem real.

  That must be good for something.

If nothing else, I’m a perpetual embryo,

  both prolific and prosaic,

like dust begetting dust.

Well, there are lots of others, I guess,

 it’s just a matter of finding them.

Look here, my friends,

 I’m shining again.  Listen!

I’m breathing sapphires

  and singing of golden shovels.

Kay Weeks, c. 1973 AND POSTED IN 2012...