As You Can See

I find a kind of joy in awkward things that syncopated dance through the ordinary fiasco,

unritualized, though their tasseled clogs are loud as Mardi Gras.

They stand us now before the quibbling static. And don’t bring rushing to mind

the fontanieres of Italianate gardens or scarlet epaulettes of Dutch carabiniers,

nor answer the summons of the articled particular but blow their own haboob.

The way the voluble sun, recounting its peculiar narrative across mountains that have no affinities,

has many misperceivers, their celebrations sung with ceremonied idioms,

when what illustrates the interior is the chance of the original magician.