Their love of all that’s ordinary
is so admired by the rest of us
who struggle in the halter of living, the twists
reminding us we’re human, and less,
it seems in the curdle of curses when ev-
erything some days slips under our nails
and in the screech of damaged ideals
we wonder what we’re doing at all.

How they seem to smile, at what?
The dun and corduroy of the day
seem cause to twinkle, reminding us
of families of saints—or,
in blooms of jealousy, they’re weird.

But what you’d say if suddenly
you saw the radiance that lives
beyond, behind, above, below,
inside, around, revealing all
is special?—even a mud black pig
snorting the sewage channel in village
India! By . . . that . . .
shining . . . all . . . this . . . shines.

What’s everyday and dun, cord-
uroy, and where’s the halter, its twists?
Where were we then? Asleep in caves?
Now open eyes, the jailor dies,
and ordinary, unbounded, flies!