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.
