by Louis Daniel Brodsky
The mimosa explodes its blooms as profusely
As ten thousand soft rockets blowing dust
Colored in endless dissolve against dark
Tuned to perceive a genius’s silence. We
Embrace a thousand clocks’ weightless hands,
Fly through pendular suspensions, descend,
By climbing from the Children’s Kingdom,
Into chambers served by old people clothed
In gold roses grown in clouds before birth.
We stop long enough, in our steep, free passing,
To touch each other touching feelings float-
Ing through trees blown by poets’ breathing.
Somewhere far beyond high, a loud sea rises,
As if our coming were air filling its lungs,
Then plunges against ears we once shared,
When music contained cloves and bay leaves
And oregano. The waters compose our children
In uterine capsules released by sweet kisses.
A mimosa grows naked in the space in a hole
In time. We climb to its base, rooted in July,
Crawl eight days out on its strongest limb.
Our shadows dangle in perfect superimposition
Against the earth, while a marriage of body
And being eclipses all singular achievements.
People will know us who have only known us
As blooms cohabiting in a halo of floating pink.
Our seeds will fill their gardens with dreams.
"The Talking Machine" and Other Poems provides startlingly clear glimpses into the author’s personal life, such as on "quiet Sundays . . . spent outside of time" with his wife, friends, and family, as well as his "6 a.m. to 9 p.m. existence" as a young salesman, including sharp details from his frequent business trips to small Midwestern outposts.