right hand pointing

Fredric Koeppel

No Applause

Spring morning like the vast

damp permission of an open

mouth. No seed neglects its

purpose, but does it ache to

bloom? This mute riot seems

intolerable, like prayer running

out of words and going on bare

feet, though were I a saint only

then would I listen. A glut of

prodigality ought not to be as

noiseless as truth. No, I meant

nothing more serious than this:

it's raining, and the dog's water

bucket overflows.