after Paul Klee

Though hardly a blockhead,

he only had twelve thoughts

in heavy rotation in that radio

station of a head of his:

Lily’s round bottom,

birds caught in a wind storm

and ten other ordinary things

modified by nine deep feelings.

This was enough for an ever-

changing picture, an infinite melody,

and when Klee lay down

at night, a swarm of philosophical

fireflies flocked to one thing

or another, burning rhythm

and beauty into the blossoms

collected by day: petals break

stone by becoming stone.

Stone catches fire; stone learns to fly.