 |
under its own blue breath,
the sky opening enough at sunset
to make believers of us all,
the way it used to be,
now that the storm has passed,
its fists of lightning
sweetening the air in the next county,
as we emerge from our shelters,
fearful and numerous,
worried about our roofs,
and each other,
gunned.
 |
| Black-robed Rebel |
May it please the Court:
I couldn't do it.
With an appointment to sell Motorcycle this afternoon,
I took a long ride instead, David Crosby in my head—
Almost cut my hair. But I didn't, and I wonder why.
Except I know why:
I wasn't ready to give up on forward, on acceleration, on progress.
True, I am long past letting my freak flag fly,
But I can still do a little cruising when it's warm and dry.
Motorcycle knows no reverse.
And going backward is a bad idea.
Something from the Sixties is revving.
—written on the day the U.S. Supreme Court overturned Roe vs. Wade
the man who owns the barn now
on this broad abandoned farm
where I shelter from the storm,
rain and wind strafing the chestnut.
"It used to be a showcase,"
the neighbors often say,
always sotto voce,
all of us of an age
stunned and wistful
at the flow of time.
Thunder shakes the ground.
 |
| at the cabin |
Working late
into the night.
Maximum feeling,
minimum words—
Bah !
Who's there
in the failing?
Only echoes.
I was taught wrong.
Time's not divisible.
Will I die bitter?
Dim light.
—after Rae Armantrout's "Above."
Up the last hill
stretching the chain
then down into the hollow
where the night gathers
clicking up for the down
pressing the pedals for speed
into the gathering coolness
menthol against wet skin
fast over the run
that weaves through the pasture
speckled with buttercups
past fields sprouting corn and the last red barn
with its calico cats ducking into the weeds
silos limned in the glimmerdim.
Leaning then into the sunset
on the last bend
past mailboxes with their flags up
where the road turns to gravel
and coasting at last
into the green peace of the yard
the old farmhouse I've claimed as my own
empty now
but for me and the dog
slapping the porch with her tail
happy I made it home
wet and breathing and alive
and no place I'd rather be
for as long as there is.
Outside in the dark,
the sky still pulsing in the south,
bare feet in wet grass
as fireflies rise and toads sing,
leaps of consciousness
after a June storm.
Why not say
how the mind works,
so quick to fall backwards
into faces and kindnesses,
into touch and breath?
Naive I suppose,
subconsciously waiting
for more of the same
after all that has happened
and everything we need.
Alive in a calm
Grateful I suppose
Ah there's the sun
I told you so
Trees we planted
Lie huge in the yard
I remember everything
But how would I know?
 |
| Sergio Lorraine photo |
You've considered surfacing,
so many now underground,
but you're sure to stand out
with your tweed and your code
out of date among the long guns
blacked-out in the glare
of an intolerable sun.
 |
| The day after the massacre at Robb Elementary Schoool. (NYT photo) |
Cry for what it means
that the world has been lost
Each of us so precious
we contain a whole world
Mountains in our heads
blue as the light fades
Seas in our hearts
the tide of our blood
We hear it deep in our ears
like oceans like wind in the trees
The earth sound, our souls
born of the mists and the ground
Now something alive in our culture
is harming us, let us not turn away
Each of us a world our children
still trailing glory, let us not turn away
Cry for what it means
that the world has been lost.
