The City Limits, by A. R. Ammons

The City Limits
A. R. Ammons – 1926-2001

When you consider the radiance, that it does not withhold
itself but pours its abundance without selection into every
nook and cranny not overhung or hidden; when you consider

that birds’ bones make no awful noise against the light but
lie low in the light as in a high testimony; when you consider
the radiance, that it will look into the guiltiest

swervings of the weaving heart and bear itself upon them,
not flinching into disguise or darkening; when you consider
the abundance of such resource as illuminates the glow-blue

bodies and gold-skeined wings of flies swarming the dumped
guts of a natural slaughter or the coil of shit and in no
way winces from its storms of generosity; when you consider

that air or vacuum, snow or shale, squid or wolf, rose or lichen,
each is accepted into as much light as it will take, then
the heart moves roomier, the man stands and looks about, the

leaf does not increase itself above the grass, and the dark
work of the deepest cells is of a tune with May bushes
and fear lit by the breadth of such calmly turns to praise.

 

You Will Know

There is a shape
When nothing’s there.

Open it
Or close it.

It’s just as round.

Leave it
Or carry it with you.

You cannot spend
What it does not lack.

There is a shape
When everything is done.

And you will know that.

You will know.

What the wind uses for thread
And needle.

The Poem Is

Like a broken guitar,

A mini golf course for
A syllogism.

Why are beginnings so important?
Why is a broken guitar a disaster?

Is the grave coming up short.

And though I think all of this is folly
I am glad of its sometimes kindness.

A poem
Is a belly flop
In handwriting

By an angel doing a handstand
While going backward in time

The Ambition of Dusk

In a simple sweater, a jawline like a lyric, is the ambition of dusk.

Against the aquarium of stars.

A simple ghost, like a pair of bashful feet in the corner.

The high wires of power lines, the moon like a spool with no thread.

Words in a notebook, coil bound, from the drugstore, do angels tattoo humans on their arms?

A jawline like a stampede, an aquarium of ghosts.

Some Kind of Employment

The job of a fool
Is to ride the bus
Till the heart becomes a circumference
Suffices the world

The job of the poet
Is to put earnings
In burning buildings

Look look a macho moon in reverse
Parks in the eyes of city gulls

Go ahead and honk for doomsday

I’ve the summer grass
Tattooed on the shoe strings of my brain
Between the toes of my heart

Seagulls

I walked to the city limit
And played volleyball
With some seagulls.

It was a no nonsense game
With plenty of intermissions.

I headed west
Up to the river.

In my coat
I stood at the water.

The posture of dusk
Ransacked of belongings
Looking over its shoulder. What if it could
Be squared?

And though the stars
Come looking for alms I have only the cents
Of infinity.

If I knew how to spell lasso
Or pumpernickel. But I don’t.

It is a reluctant light
The hardware of the self.