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| Eight-degree morning. |
Blackbirds swoop in from Virginia,
Gargling and shrugging in the apple tree
By the pond where perch are shadows under ice
Receding in an arc where the spring purls in.
I watch from a rocker by a fogged window,
Reading James Tate with an open mind,
I've just tossed a log into the stove and opened
The draft a half turn, the iron is ticking, and I
Want to go where pelicans are on display. Next
I'll visit planets of the solar system — the Tate effect.
On the other side of the mountain there's a man
Who lived his whole life and never left the township.
He watched too much Fox, became fearful and mean —
There's a lot of other beyond these mice-infested walls.
Then frackers appeared and poisoned his well.
Much of living is invention, yet fact from fiction
Should be easier to tell, like in this alternative poem,
But what of it? Lunatics are loose on the roads,
And no one demands proof anymore. Meanwhile I'm off,
Reading and rocking. I'll text you from Neptune.
