John Biscello

Call me crazy

but I am

completely

and madly

and utterly

in love with life,

its manifold fingers

on the pulse of the sun,

its fleshy, ripening

portents, and winged hushes,

I have become

the guy

that sees rainbows

wildly spitting color

as if

to rechristen the gleam

in my eyes,

the lover of historic

gray silences

coursing through

the veins of stones,

to walk,

with my head

tilted skyward

in praise of hawks,

their lofty, gliding

amens

a salve for my mortal heart,

how I became this guy,

I don’t know,

Catholic-Italian Brooklyn

boy

from rough-hewn streets

and corners

I was,

and now,

a single blade of grass

has the power

to slow me down,

the bark of olive trees

has left imprints on my lips,

and clouds bundled

in a snowdrift symphony,

play me to the reveries

of Mozart’s ghost

in fleece,

or how the sea

tailors its own

furl-fringed script

and pearlescent art,

tandemic

to Mister Shakespeare’s

wisdom-pop,

There are more things

in heaven and earth

Horatio

than are dreamt of

in your philosophy,

yes,

the sudden turns

of wonder,

and sorrow,

fill the heart’s bask,

and here I am,

a scarred feather in a gale,

carrying the scrim of wonder

to its most lucid

yield.