Time with Wislawa S.

The Polish poet is an acquired taste

the man lounging 

in his soft robe declares to himself. 

She writes obliquely like a cloud 

invisible at night 

or a journalist on holiday 

who continues to write about people

seen clearly yet might know 

little about.

There’s an abstract quality hard

to pin down he concretely realizes,

(or perhaps my limitation?)

as this morning 

he perseveres reading,

the thick book, a grin, 

slight chagrin, minor 

frustration, a frown.

Then two doves perch

and lounge 

atop 

backyard’s wall.