Hidden in White Pulp

Sometimes I wonder how I can have walked past this tree a hundred times and never ran my fingers and my eyes along the rough rugae of its bark.

Sometimes I look at a word and want to jump into it, to see the world of its origin swell, to be the one that bells its meaning clearer and stronger.

Pleasures

by Denise Levertov

I like to find

what's not found

at once, but lies

within something of another nature,

in repose, distinct.

Gull feathers of glass, hidden

in white pulp: the bones of squid

which I pull out and lay

blade by blade on the draining board—

tapered as if for swiftness, to pierce

the heart, but fragile, substance

belying design. Or a fruit, mamey,

cased in rough brown peel, the flesh

rose-amber, and the seed:

the seed a stone of wood, carved and

polished, walnut-colored, formed

like a brazilnut, but large,

large enough to fill

the hungry palm of a hand.

I like the juicy stem of grass that grows

within the coarser leaf folded round,

and the butteryellow glow

in the narrow flute from which the morning-glory

opens blue and cool on a hot morning.