 |
| jo'b |
 |
| jo'b |
Dew-strung and crowned with dawn
no one could find us
in the goldenrod field
as we had wished,
listening to the bees
chanting as they worked,
our pantlegs tucked into our socks
sprayed with Permethrin
against the stark truths of the world.
 |
| jo'b |
Grass mowed,
I fell asleep
in a chair by the well
and awoke with the sky in my eyes,
realizing as if for the first time
I'd never see her again—
one moment we were discussing
Yeats and elderberries, and the next
I was alone on a dirt road
in a nest of modified illusions,
facing the savage god of the future—
but it was only the FedEx driver
pounding down the road,
raising yellow dust.
 |
| jo'b |
to have night
in one's body.
It is hurtful
to be right.
—Robinson Jeffers was right.
 |
| jo'b |
wraiths, the should-have-beens,
await to meet me in my dreams.
I am too much alone,
too unforgiving of myself—
soft music fills the void,
and reading sometimes helps—
Sometimes my mind's not right,
as Robert Lowell confessed,
but still I would not say
that I myself am hell—
Quickly yet how in the dark
I'm back in my childhood bed,
pillow wrapped around my head
to keep the shouting out,
the insults and the breaking glass,
the one-man show at 3 a.m.
In the great relief of sunrise,
soundly in first light I sleep—
late to bed, and late to rise
keeps this man healthy—
if not wealthy. if not wise.
 |
| jo'b |
