Duane Ackerson: "Praising Little"

Let us praise little:

dust, pilgrims resting on plateaus,

the world inside the wind

of a vacuum cleaner,

the mouth of the navel

rehearsing small speeches

of lint, pockets full of replies;

things moving under stones:

bugs, small black flames

licking through woodpiles,

worms stretching their tendons

when you try to pull earth free from itself

parachutists, blossoms falling and

folding back into two-stemmed flowers,

walking away

dogs performing under the grandstands

while the elephants attempt

to climb up on each other

the mist, no larger than a gray caterpiller

as it climbs hills

to reach your eyes;

the past, becoming a small small ball

as it richochets off one thought

then another,

bouncing further and further

back into the brain.

[from the chapbook, "The Bird at the End of the Universe"]