Song 3

Song 3

This morning of the small snow

I count the blessings, the leak in the faucet

which makes of the sink time, the drop

of the water on water as sweet

as the Seth Thomas

in the old kitchen

my father stood in his drawers to wink (always

he forgot the 30th day, as I don't want to remember

the rent

a house these days

so much somebody else's,

especially,

Congoleum's

Or the plumbing,

that it doesn't work, this I like, have even used paper clips

as well as string to hold the ball up And flush it

with my hand

But that the car doesn't, that no moving thing moves

without that song I'd void my ear of, the musickracket

of all ownership...

Holes

in my shoes, that's all right, my fly

gaping, me out

at the elbow, the blessing

that difficulties are once more

"In the midst of plenty, walk

as close to

bare

In the face of sweetness,

piss

In the time of goodness,

go side, go

smashing, beat them, go as

(as near as you can

tear

In the land of plenty, have

nothing to do with it

take the way of

the lowest,

including

your legs, go

contrary, go

sing

--Charles Olson