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Collected Poetry

    (rd king dot net)
poetry and digital art

Beating Heart, Dancing Feet  

  White 


Let it not be considered otherwise:
I drove an expensive car
with a delicate music system

through the enchanted city at night.
And the pleasure I gained
was articulate and simply proffered

like a poem, or a movie that is
loosely-structured, lineal,
and escalates from a beginning

that is outside what was beginning
now:  a very fine rain was falling—
a rain that could not disturb

the windshield or the shop windows
or the few wanderers admiring the night
streets.  A pleasant dimness controlled

the second story windows and balconies
and all things that rose above.
The trees grew into a rain that seemed

almost unwilling to fall and be ended.
From the handsome restaurant doors
little crowds issued—laughing,

lighting cigarettes, pressing cheeks
together—the women seeming madcap,
the men influential.  To them

this rain must be the pleasure
that neatly follows the other pleasures
before returning to their shiny cars.



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