Sweet Thistle

Eating an artichoke
leaf by leaf
with sweet salt butter
as the rain goes on,
in the closeted hold
of the world
with the bird song
of television, telephones,
and the bird song
softly mewled
of kittens under porches,
with the grey sleep
of neurogeographers
on the five continents
peninsula-wings,
lilac explosion
somewhere in space,
soap and butterfat
on this childeyed planet
and the electric thought
oh long oh long

you feel yourself turning
at the heart