Poem: The Subject of a Small World

The Subject of a Small World

A man walks across his backyard
as the only subject of a small world,
where a frenzy of finches and sparrows
fidget in the light they occupy. 
Crows squawk from high branches. 
He sees and hears himself laughing. 
None of the animals miss the point
of his wandering—patterns of a body
in play—but he misses everything in his
joy.  Delusion never comes at the wrong
time.  UFOs, devil men, and the unreason
of expectation slather the land with thick
pigments.  Whatever meant to hurry
the world hurries him.  His head is like
a bell with a cork clapper.  Yet his
whole body hears himself ringing, striking
the seconds and the hours, praising
the stars he cannot see and the stars
he sees in the flowers as if they
were all he could understand. 
He knows the rising sun better than anyone
can know his own body, better than a man
can know a woman or a monk can know
his cell.  The world expands
for him, opening like a lover on a late
night when her man has come
in from a long trip.  He never tires. 
He rages mirthfully.  What amuses him
never stops changing, jingling in a chorus
of twenty keys, sounding like a far-off
voice that calls him to come see himself
after the winter has passed.