A Communion of Water and Blood

  ***

  The Sky is Green

  Beyond the field, trees—

  beyond the trees, sky—

  meanwhile a deer

  (most likely a buck)

  escapes thrashing into a ravine

  as the deaf dogs forge ahead.

  So I listen for them,

  pausing to consider the setting

  before following a dark sump

  towards the spring, angling right

  with the dogs at the journey’s far end

  as the aquamarine sky

  becomes night

  through a fringe of bare trees.

  ***

  Afterlife

  I lift the door of the nest box

  to see fluffy quadruplets

  lying on a cupped bed

  of dry grass.

  Asleep they seem

  entranced by osmosis,

  acquiring through dreams

  lofty knowledge

  of green fields and high summer.

  Still dead to the world a day later

  they fledge, tumbling to earth

  in a tuck on quelled wings.

  ***

  Waiting in an Open Doorway

  Near the summery finale of a week

  in which the fall equinox passed, I sit and listen

  to the altering state of things. Already

  the wind is changing position; the temperature drops;

  a sudden gust and leaves cascade off the aspen

  onto my head, glancing through to skitter

  scratchily on the faux-tile floor of the kitchen.

  A pair of engaged damsel flies buzz

  arched and entangled, coupled at the octagonal

  screen at the gable in a dance of discovery, finding

  no fabled way out. I too wish to return

  where I have not skinny-dipped once all summer.

  Before the big drop-off I should walk

  in my paint-splattered cut-offs to dabble perhaps

  more than just ten toes in the water, closing my eyes

  to the dogs splashing forth in the shallows.

  ***

  Persevering

  Am I to be disconsolate forevermore?

  It’s not difficult inhabiting that frame

  of reference. It suits me. I mourn

  the very scar of the earth fast disappearing

  beneath the new grass covering your grave.

  I feel sad in the afternoon, encountering silence.

  Sighing, my lungs exhale only unutterable words,

  until I remember our football team, now winning.

  It is that time of year. The leaves are constantly turning—

  some red, some yellow. The air is so clear and warm

  these first few perfect fall days. I accept it

  as a kind of responsibility, to enjoy them all

  in your memory. Should I add, as well,

  the cat misses you too?

  ***

  Words were First Tangible Things

  Had I not already possessed the idea of the fox

  perhaps I would not have been able to see it,

  for my glasses lie on the cherry hall table

  alongside the old Underwood typewriter

  that sits prominently in place only

  to remind me there once was a time

  when words were first tangible things.

  But now it must be the idea was there even before

  the recognition of what I saw, because—and this

  is the main thing—I saw the fox

  for the thing it was (is that accurate?

  “thing” “it was”?) and not just some amorphous

  unidentifiable blob, which is what my eyes detected,

  not seeing at first—my default setting—anything at all

  clearly.

  Oh reader, dear reader, believe me

  when I say the world of the mind and the world

  of the world are one and the same,

  and yet not. Philosophy pretends

  to know what this means. Let’s just say

  I’ve learned what life is: the personal

  exploration into the duality of things.

  All I know is what I know and see, and what I see

  is a fox through my window, standing aloof on the snow.

  I see my reflection in the glass just as well,

  but that means not as much, somehow.

  I only wish to retrieve my glasses so as not to miss out

  on viewing something essential and tangible or, in other words,

  real. The strange thing is the fox has no idea

  I am here. It walks to the spent burn pile down below

  the old hickory

  and paws in the crusty snow, concerned only with its own hunger

  I guess, and not at all with its being caught out

  being, however imperfectly, observed.

  ***

  Looking Through Glass, Darkly

  The cat flicks

  and curls her tail, which

  like the halting arm

  of an erratic metronome

  divides the seconds

  between desire and intention

  as she sits at the window

  watching a world of oblivious finches

  beyond her possession.

  ***

  October 19, 2009

  Leaves

  in yellow light

  fall tipping

  one way

  and another

  on still Autumn

  air.

  I think

  and dream leaves,

  limbs exposed,

  stripped bare

  as the trees

  holding my breath

  in the yard,

  discerning

  neither they

  nor I

  are quite quiet,

  yet.

  ***

  Work in Progress

  I feel your fingers caressing,

  smoothing, searching for a way

  in. At least that is how it feels

  at the penetrable surface

  you reveal me to be.

  I yearn to suggest

  all the beautiful forms

  residing within,

  but there are too many choices

  and possibilities confound

  you and me.

  Eventually, though, you must decide,

  as is your task and privilege,

  to determine first

  the one thing, then the next,

  and so be the arbiter of my being.

  I feel your fingernail tapping

  like a wood chisel, testing, testing,

  and my body clenches tight while I wait—

  wait for you to release me

  from this unformed existence,

  and bestow on us both the crux

  of the divined.

  ***

  Prescription for Living

  —after a poem by Anna Akhmatova

  I will teach myself to live simply,

  to rise with the sun and walk in the dew,

  and toil happily with hoe and rake

  in the back garden under a benevolent sky.

  I will go to the fields and cool woods and stream

  to pick black caps and red raspberries

  at my leisure—returning sated, fingers stained purple,

  to drink water from the rusting hand pump

  in the shaded front yard.

  I may stop and listen to the whispering bluebird

  perched on a high bough, and feel my heart settle

  as I close my eyes, perhaps waking

  only when the cat stops to lick my drooping hand

  with her dry raspy tongue.

  Looking about again, watching bunnies leap

  one another in a low-slanting light,

  I shall know all is sufficient for God’s purpose.
>
  May I always remember and never forget

  this world is truly a wonderful place,

  mine to enjoy.

  ***

  The Fall

  An apple is a tempting fruit,

  Its skin reflects the light;

  But minds once sound were deaf and dumb

  When innocent mouths did bite.

  Or if it were a green and gritty pear

  As much the pair did gain in loss.

  It set their teeth on edge no less

  To taste its pithy dross.

  ***

  The Fruit of the Tree of Knowledge

  By the time Adam returned, the Serpent

  had already proved to Eve’s satisfaction

  that God had not spoken the truth—and so seduced her

  by touching, coiling about, and finally mouthing

  the forbidden fruit, without any apparent dire result.

  “See?” He triumphantly assured her. “You surely will not die.

  Rather, you will become as God Himself, full of knowledge.”

  And so eager to believe, she bit and knew too.

  Later, in turn offering the same revelation, she related

  the tale and stood naked before Adam as proof.

  “See? I am that I was,” she exclaimed. Intrigued

  and yet innocent, immersed obliviously in good, he still hesitated

  before taking the proffer of her hand, knowing

  in his limited way (if God was still to be trusted)

  Eve’s disobedience condemned them to separation

  even were he to refuse. And so, Adam accepted the gift,

  choosing death in the Garden over life eternal, alone.

  ***

  Shiva

  Not five minutes ago

  while mowing the lawn

  I thought about writing this poem to you.

  It has now gotten too dark to see

  so I stand alone in the cool grass

  eating a peach beneath a quiet poplar tree.

  The morning breeze may shake its leaves

  or maybe the rain in the night

  should it come.

  Who can know?

  It could even shake should the earth tremor

  somehow.

  I eat the peach as I think of you.

  I bite at the skin, the flesh gushes.

  Do you know, across the world, what I am thinking?

  I wonder, Shiva, if you will destroy me

  or if I will destroy you

  or if the world will destroy the both of us, together.

  Who can tell? It is sth beyond knowing.

  Perhaps I should concern myself only

  with devouring this peach, so soft, juicy, and sweet.

  ***

  Desire

  Half awake

  I stood at the sander

  dreaming of you

  dreaming a poem

  half-composed in my mind.

  Fourteen years later

  everything still resides in the aether.

  A red doe

  splashes in shallow pond water

  with her two spotted fawns.

  I wish you could see.

  ***

  Felicity

  for Aisha

  If my love lies, then she does flatter me,

  Coaxing my doubt towards certainty;

  But though words are said in seeming truth,

  Of her real intent I have no proof.

  I wish only to see her emerald eyes,

  And be assured her smile conveys no compromise.

  Instead, awake, I listen through the night

  To her words’ artful echo, for if they be right

  Then I most surely must be wrong to doubt her love:

  She is far more fair and pure than I could prove.

  But if they be false, then so is she,

  Yet gladly would I lie with her, in complicity.

  5/4 2002

  ***

  Regret

  for Robbie

  I stand at the top of the hill

  in silence surrounded by woods

  and deep snow.

  You wanted only this—

  to feel the calm

  before descent

  and a semblance of control

  over an unbroken trail.

  Instead, I taught you to herringbone;

  forced to climb beyond your capability,

  you had no choice but to sideslip

  and laugh, falling

  all the way down.

  I think of that day now

  standing here all alone

  wishing I could bring you along.

  ***

  Before Valentine’s Day

  Through binoculars, I spy on bluebirds

  just beginning to titterflutter

  in the feathery tips of dead goldenrod weeds.

  Sunshine combines with the ubiquitous snow.

  Behind me,

  orange coal decays like a radionucleoid

  making steam of a stewpot of H2O.

  The cat lies curled

  into a circle of its own contentment

  on the red tile hearth under the stove.

  Above the couch, a man shooting rail

  stands balanced on a flatboat, gun raised,

  poised for the imminent explosion

  that never comes.

  How would it be to be

  forever waiting at the cusp of realization?

  (I mean as I am now.)

  Tell me you don’t know,

  or tell me you do.

  I will confess as much… back to you.

  ***

  Enchantment

  A cool wind

  preceding dark sky

  wafts clouds

  of pollen like yellow smoke

  over recoiling spruce trees.

  My Maya (dear

  child of Mongols on a high steppe plane)

  steers an imaginary pony

  so happily undeterred by incipient rain

  I pause to wonder—which of us,

  what of our relative experience,

  is supposedly deficient?

  ***

  Easy Way Out

  A crow

  slides over a spruce

  and rows behind the barn

  on a breeze.

  Mid-night

  dissonance strums

  through a line

  picked up through the headboard

  at the west gable end

  of all dreams.

  I escape,

  beckoning, making the crow

  caw and turn—

  plucking me up

  out of body.

  ***

  Type

  In the beginning was the Word…

  Potentially any line

  composes an epiphany.

  I remember my father saying

  “He’s going to be a writer,”

  joy creating a bond

  based on the simple desire

  to produce, if not justify,

  a phrase.

  He saw in my pursuit

  the succession of generations:

  exchanging script for print.

  I saw lines composed

  clinking atop the linotype, standing close

  to an ingot dissolving in purgatory.

  I watched; I wondered.

  Disoriented by their wayward direction,

  I puzzled

  at the meaning of cold hardened slugs

  aligned into galleys of proof,

  set fast against a changeable world.

  All these years later

  I seek still to feel the imprint of malleable lead

  formed into letters, pressed onto paper,

  before consignment to the oblivion of hell

  where neither word nor flesh prevail.

  I chase my father’s words;

  I choose my own,

&nb
sp; drawing from a poisoned well.

  ***

  Imagining the Future without You

  It’s not hard to think

  those hands, those feet, those bland

  blue eyes you gave me

  lie contained in transcendental dust

  beneath this gray engraved stone bearing your name.

  I stand here now before you

  with my own hands contained in creased

  pants, the flesh of my feet clad

  in shined wingtips, eyeing this place you chose

  for us to be together.

  I feel a lack of substance, a failure of essence

  in the cool breeze touching my cheek,

  and I surrender, closing my eyes, taking in a full

  measure of breath, holding it

  out of a sheer, willful desire to do so.

  I, whom am still able to breathe in the moment,

  pause to consider a time still to come

  and a time already gone forever.

  I remember you

  sitting in a curled white and gray photo

  taken the year before I came along, your legs

  tucked obliquely to one side beneath a pleated dress

  pressed flat on the late summer’s grass;

  you are not yet showing and so neither am I,

  yet here I am making an appearance before you,

  imaging you as you were, realizing

  after all these years

  I can’t recall what flowers to get you.

  ***