The Screened Porch

A chorus upon the pure
formal fling of myself
on the axis of the world
across the porch, the lawn,
the concrete steps, the beach,
projectile, arrow, bird—
out of the dark and brown
bookshelved living room
the catapulting feet

tiny, naked, pounding
the Navaho rugs, the call
of gulls, the shuffle of oaks,
the blade of threshold brass,
the porch air bright and warm,
smell of the sun, a figure
shadowy on the swing
or creaking in the wicker,
the smash through the screen door,

the stone path chilly, the pierce
of stones, the downward leap
through the gap in the hot wall
to the pale and yielding sand,
the lake, the far dissolving
horizon of New York State,
the screen door slam behind.

—ROBERT CAMPBELL