New Day

Yes, the sun rises an angry red,

what the Romans called oriens,

what the religious associate with Christ,

and I walk out in my shorts, stretching

and puffing to train the scarlet runner beans

to their trellis; whatever god governs

beans has smiled, the vines grown

a foot overnight, and as I lace them

around the nervous network of twine

my son, who last night collapsed

in an anguish of stertorous breathing,

comes down, stretches and yawns, pees.

Pots rattle in the kitchen,

grits and eggs,

and the rooster with a pneumonic lung

croaks-oohgggHHH-for the sun

but he hasn't died yet and

as I'm eating, the radio says

the President is lobbying

to subvert another small country

and I flip the dial and a preacher

who knows nothing says that except

for one thing there is nothing to know,

and when I walk out again

a hummingbird's in the salvia,

the sun's up, the dog on his chain

whines for breakfast, and the squash

are flourishing and when I stand near them

with my bright yellow shirt the cucumber beetles,

who love anything yellow, land on me and

are destroyed, sinners on the shirt

of a jealous god, and the sun's rising

to zenith, the chickens are scratching

around in their mud and if you

were very young you could say

this is heaven what with the dew

and the birds chirpy and all and yes

if you wait long enough

you will see the new moon

with the old moon in her arms.