I lay in bed this morning,
not seeking sleep, but brightly awake,
reading a book of poetry.
The poet wrote of things I knew,
had seen or touched or tasted
a bath, a stone, an over-ripe peach.
In meditation, an ashram or a subway
his thoughts brought him and me
new intriguing life-affirming concepts.
A rock on the beach with an imagined face
became, in his imagination, a castaway
who had to be returned to the ocean.
The senile fruit, meant for the needy,
was for the poet, poor food for the poor.
a new, uncomfortable idea for me.
In every aspect of every poem, the poet
brought a new intriguing way of seeing.
I left bed wiser than if I'd slept.
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