I hear it from the shore, the organizer’s call,
                                 and organize me, I call back.

Crossing the street against the light, I see it in the look
                                                  of the young and elegant gal,
         and organize us, I look back.

I feel it when I touch
         the newborn’s newborn skin,
                                                   the organizing touch,
         and beating beneath my only heart, the organizer’s heart.

You find it in old harmonies, the fogeys at their morning sex,
         a freshness in us we cannot destroy, 
                                                  we perfume the blade 
                                                                            with our need.

And late in night’s soup kitchen, there he is
          to ladle it out: O taste of that
                                        which does not taste of you.