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* * *
box turtle
dignified despite the mushroom
on his chin
far pasture
the slow rearrangement
of cows
watering hole
the sky’s reflection in each
deep hoof print
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Execution
At some point in my late teens, I took over from my dad as chief executioner. I think it bothered me slightly less than it bothered him, a life-long pacifist.
a V of swans
my fingers still sticky
with chicken blood
What, You Egg?
Here I am,
sitting in the dark
alone next to the turtle pond.
There is no rhyme,
no reason,
and no sense
as the turtles are asleep.
I stay up late
for no purpose at all
and my mind is oft adrift;
I worry for the future
about the past
and evermore the present,
but I can't make up my mind
and the turtles are asleep.
Under muse of calls
The Egg and the Machine
He gave the solid rail a hateful kick.
From far away there came an answering tick
And then another tick. He knew the code:
His hate had roused an engine up the road.
He wished when he had had the track alone
He had attacked it with a club or stone
And bent some rail wide open like a switch
So as to wreck the engine in the ditch.
Too late though, now, he had himself to thank.
Its click was rising to a nearer clank.
Here it came breasting like a horse in skirts.
(He stood well back for fear of scalding squirts.)
Then for a moment all there was was size
Confusion and a roar that drowned the cries
He raised against the gods in the machine.
Then once again the sandbank lay serene.