For John Ciardi after How Does a Poem Mean?
If you look out
this window at
your sky above
the wires, spread like
scree suspended throughout
an Yves Klein blue, for
far enough beyond
the blue to see, without
waiting on
anyone in
particular from
your to-do list but
wanting nothing save
your loyal heart beating up
broken rhythm with
swallows flying over
your rooftop before
their flight toward
a vacant lot across
the littered streets amid
the endless din round
children playing past
your field of vision, you’d know to
whom your life belongs. Between
you and God, what besides
these things are you a part of?