And then this
A spring, the water
feeding on air
I thought,
Let the world be replenished
But, no, the world
replenishes itself
Loud current, green leaf
The fallen log
be runneth over
until rock:
Nature smoothes its future,
becomes hard as a fossil
in the tumbling flow
We are warned.
A funnel, an umbrella
The reverse of an umbrella
The force washes me now
downriver, everything
important
left behind
and I cannot
go back
to get it
A crowd scared
a racehorse
away from the rail
and into other horses.
In the slop.
The horse still won
but then it lost
on maximum review.
We awoke secure
in a country house
sprawled out
on a bed
of second roses.
I know it knows we are here.
As we talk about the wind it quiets off.
It collects itself in the far corner of the field,
takes a running start, launches at us again.
It seems to want something. I wonder
if it takes as much pleasure in sending a tent
flying as we take in seeing a tent on the move.
It translates a gunshot, it stokes the fire.
It pries metal from the shed,
it pulls the hat from your head.
It opens one door, slams another.
It absconds with the coffee filters.
It leaves dirt on the doorstep,
it tries to speak in the trees.
It takes popcorn from the plate
but doesn’t eat it.
It takes twenty dollars from the ledge
but doesn’t spend them.
It loosens your hair in the air
but it does not love you.
The wind is how hay stretches
It is how rock changes color
It is where the smoke goes
But at dusk
the wind follows the light
over the wide horizon.
We unpack our things
and lay them about
like feathers.
As a fire burns
we listen to
a whip-poor-will
sing into the still air
of the night
as it winnows
its lonesome away.
I realized there was more to Missouri
that summer, working in the middle of the state.
On Fridays I'd take Highway 50 from
Jeff City to Union, through antique towns,
past fields of hip-high grass that hushed
wispy and soft, green-gold in
June and July's late-setting light.
The spell would break hard when
I hit the interstate, leaving only a fleeting
afterimage as I braced for the
reality of lane changes and going
home, to my parents.
One August evening, somewhere west of Rosebud
I drove past a field whose grass was freshly
cut, left to hay in shaggy rolls, two dozen
of them spread out like a herd of bison grazing
quiet in a pasture holding nothing else
but a single sun-soaked tree.
At its far end the field ran up against a treeline,
giving rise to one of Missouri's unsung hills.
Above the hill a hawk tracked higher on
a thermal while cumulus and contrail
slowly absorbed the colors of the sunset.
I was late getting home that night.
When my parents asked me where I'd been I
said nothing, only handed them
this photograph.
My time in this house is limited
The walls swell, the floors crawl
The doors don't add up
I have driven everyone away
The roof is caving
The chimney's twisted
But the clocks are never wrong
When I leave they'll all come back
But I will not leave
And I cannot stay
1
There are twenty drawers
but only one keyhole
2
bite guard
rubber band
cough drop
3
Assorted drawers in maple frames
stacked on a slant, askant
4
lint brush
lavender
lip balm
5
A warp of wood
hitched in a jute strap
fourteen years in the making
6
night creams
magazines
and dreams
7
“The drawers are the sliding parts.”
“What do you call the rest of it?”
“A nightstand”
8
is empty
9
nail file
paper clip
flashlight
10
“This one’s locked.”
“There must be a key.”
“Maybe in here—”
At times I arrive to find somebody
has been there, raided it, trashed the place. Or water
has tricked the roof, creating interior weather.
Once the front door dropped a pane, waved in winter.
I had to shoo an upstart family of robins
who cursed me all the way to the creek.
One April I took a bath in the creek,
submerged in a pool, current run along my body.
When I emerged my head was as clear as the robin’s.
Someone said, “You know we turned the water
on?” I thought of trees dressing after winter
when three deer appeared, rejoicing in the weather.
Continue with poem...
Cold water, one dollar
Crows calling in the
cemetery
Book about water
Mud underfoot Ferns
growing out of the walls
Cackles, protestations
Free tours
Vaults, sarcophagi
biers Hide and seek
among gravestones
Marble, cement
etched names
A spigot, dry for years
This land, this district...
Continue reading...
"Have you caught any of the latest virals?"
"I got the flu shot."
"What?"
"I don't know what you're saying."
"I was asking you a question..."
There is a heron working the creek, a big blue bird with slow wing-beats. I've never seen one here before. The Little Tavern was flowing strong, its overflow channel along the road deep as I've ever driven through.
I've got radio going in the house...
Continue reading...
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