Donald Berger
To Be Where the Sun Is
To Be Where the Sun Is
To be where the sun is,
is that a goal? The roads
curve, the hills lift, the day
on the side of the road.
Honestly to think of
them then, to want to call
out to the north and east
both, at the same time,
human, sworn. What will my
face want, what? What I see
has a hand In it. What
will be my Idea to
wait with me, What I don’t
know What will be my day?
Who’ll know, My nerve set of
six muscles In each of
my eyes, My brain in Two
halves, sounds recorded at the
sides. Speech at the front.
The cables do I Know
the difference Between sight
and sound. The ear, hinged chain
of bones, the head I Smile
with it, angstroms 4 to
eight Thousand violet to
red. What else Will I think,
(while) there? Will senses be
enough, will fall Be enough,
will clouds? Will light stay In my
eyes till gone? Of something
to write or write with, ways,
Words to say if I
one, brightness, Where there’s Bright-
ness in my eyes. Will it Be
enough, will it? What if
I see some person and
Words become this way,
certain, intense. Not
only but the throat Of
what should it Touch the top.
Both eyes at The same thing.
By the lips not only food
but the start of sound. Who
is it? Who walks with his
feet on the walk it’s who
I know, who I think’s what’s
the window, who’s waiting For
everything like a bus
to come. Now I’ll wait, I’ll
act now I’ll form.
