Book of Joys: Shaken

Sometimes when the air shivers
on the paved horizon I
move toward it expecting
that might shake
me.

I need to be shaken,
often: a man prone to doze
off and wander
from the path.

You need to shake me,
often, like a honeybee
shakes a crocus –
hello spring!

Sometimes when I’m near
the Atlantic, I imagine
this continent vibrating
and sending waves
to their whirled companions;

that is the way you need to
shake me: leave your
fingerprints on my arms, on my
cheek: I am inside out,

and you need to shake me
as often as you think
I’m full of shit and vinagar,
and as often as you’re full of
the joy of moving
my plates a little farther
to the left.