Poem for a dawn I missed by rising late
Wren, when will
that cricket stop
its racket in
your throat?
Cricket, how could you
play second fiddle
all night to
the katydids?
And you lot, with
your gossip about
poor Kate, who did
both less & more
than you
can know –
be still now.
I get my own bit of the globe
to bury all my fine things
before bedtime
with my wife
in the best ground
roof fallen in
like a borrowed hope
the owl only knows
what this quiet is for
and what to let grow
in a naked bed
the ground is some
kind of plot
dangerous for a stranger
to walk on
being all dirt
and the moving earth
as ugly as my life
this one body of flame
The assistant baker, shapely
in her chef’s whites, squeezes
past the rack of fresh rolls
cooling in the doorway
to stand in the alley by the stacks
of plastic milk crates & listen
to the robins waking, the occasional
rattle of the manhole cover out front
when a car goes over it, & the quiet
breath of the prep cook drawing
on his cigarette, pah . . . fff . . .
They are both still replaying
their conversation from the last break,
two hours before: how in less
than a month, she will move
to the next state for a job
a home close as any order
as far as me
I wash myself a great while
to shed my other bed
Snag turned deadfall,
dread widow-maker with
your fag-ends caught
in the crotch of a living tree,
hold fast while the chainsaw
gnaws through your limb,
don’t pinch the bar in your haste
to get free, but as soon as
the uppercut meets the undercut,
drop straight, don’t twist
or kick. Sink into the soft
mulch of your many autumns,
the bed you made for just
this final fall.
I slept till a fly landed on me
and walked over that ground
this ground
in silence
I must keep more distance
from my pleasures
aching down down down
into the bone
the backs of my books
make handsome content
a body that nobody looks after
dangerous to be free
I do not think but follow
the old gold evening
how many strokes a fly
makes with her wings
is a wonder the leaves tally
where we nest
with pleasure in everything
but that pretty clock the moon
an untruth might fix me
if I walk with it
yesterday is road enough
I am full of time
the new stairs took me
down to a rival now
night and a supper
getting ready
night as night
first let me be
were there no such thing as hell here
no faith no truth no love
would it matter
would I have taken it to heart
how much of this is true
the marginal swan
the dancing girls
this open road of a body
is it enough to give us
the name of conquerors