San Francisco
The street trash can be beautiful
If one decides that it is.
At this hour, the sun oblique
And golden, it could be
The blossoms spilled from a tree
After a windy April night.
I heard whoever tipped the bin
Over scream, then fell back
To sleep. Sometimes someone’s
Pain reaches up through
The white noise and shakes you
Awake. Guilt and fortune,
What I threw out thrown out
On the street like people.
One could complain,
Post something on a wall,
Recall. Or one could walk out
As if into a meadow,
Wondering at the mushrooms
That sprang up while one slept,
That muscled so valiantly up
Through loam and dead leaves.
Something that wasn’t there
When you fell asleep is now.
Why not believe that
This too is beautiful?
Why not choose amazement?