As the winter, the suicide-bombings persist, and the news
drones on, confirming Daniel
Pearl's death, and as we go on,
about our love, miles,
our complaints about the miles, that
that strike us more each
day as luxury.
How ( we might ask )
might we
imagine the sea-birds
/ the world-high clouds
and blue
another morning touches on --
imagine crowds so
dense detonations
touch so many -- the
nails
and airborne shards
-- and dozens --
deepening light
four autumns made familiar
-- coursing
the woods and
rim
of man-made pond near
Dalton -- moved
by their hungers say
-- by
these songs and (
sometimes ) snows
that never finish -- until
the word itself seems
anthem now
or wish list -- until
we are waking at half-past
-- burrowing --
are waking and
Monday's
now -- believing the
restorations
we've agreed to -- unready
to imagine arms / alms
-- the burden
to conceal -- and
the kneeling
done -- between the
hardware
and the altars / the
lists
of casualties the voices raised
/ and songs the voices
never meant
to finish.
*
Three inches per hour turn me back --
after thirty
or so miles -- with
grading
to do --
leftovers to share -- your
surprise
to find me home
instead of driving / finishing
a round-trip
after dark -- to
share
an eight-thirty
supper-
time.
*
Then Tuesday's
ice -- schools
closed -- early Mass
and groceries -- getting
a start
on Easter
plans for company. And -- if
the next morning's
fog -- I should
have guessed --
ice
where the plows
have been --
and
all that our
hurry
does to listening
--
with Easter
earlier
/ the end of March
-- and who
knows whom
among us at the table
-- or
walking with us
outdoors -- cruising
/ counting
/ speaking our names
through star-packed
chill
still lingering
/ to the constellations
winking
like all forms
of make-
believe.
*
I think how the lasers paint and will --
bringing the thunder down on rocks
and breaking worlds. Imagine the ends of
under way! Dan Pearl's
dead -- who understood
the risks
/ the snowed-over roofs
and trusses -- what
the moonlight
seems -- when hearts
do
what some hearts will for the money --
bringing their terrible twisted hands
to consequence -- to root-cellars
/ to endure the instruments --
until there is something warm --
and warmer still than
tea / than even
chastening.
*
Dan Pearl's dead. And
the snow
we'd wished for's
repeating its large numbers -- bringing
me home tonight -- to
colors
I know / and
sandwich plates
warmed in the oven -- to
something like supper
after all -- while
children imagine themselves
another go at
schooling -- and
reel-to-reel practices
-- parts
in the comedy and
howl -- these kids
heard sing for sentimental reasons --
believing the talk they might
( as stars )
share with the girls
-- until
the noise gets
serious -- and
the rustiest
/ deflated boytoys --
traded in on blood-feuds -- are
lost
with strings attached -- too much
tonight -- for the exams
/ for
the carted trash / tomorrow's
driving -- and too
brief
too blue -- when hearts
dream lifetime
valentines.
*
How ( we might ask
) might Mr. Z
be dealing? Maybe
he feels the
irony -- in every
image underlined --
among
the wires and paints
-- on the garage shelves
kids insist on
taking over --
setting the key
/ timbre
and gazing undeterred
/ walking
with tablets there
as complicatons melt
and run
/ streaking the shit-hued stones
and staking parts
in the creation.
And everywhere / everyone
's
some need there's
no explaining!
It's Christmas -- ( packing light )
--
and everywhere :the
stories
run again -- while
some
( narrow-eyed ) god
( may be )
enjoys the whimpering
/ the lines -- as
they
form and snake
of shirt-less
flagellants.
*
An arc
( I suppose ) describing
many accents -- here's
the moon again
-- then -- forty
( or fifty ) years
-- and kids --
who love the stars enough
-- describing
their dreams
so words
would still astound
a dreamer
/ not as the
tunes
would do -- and not
as these stones
would do -- dropped
and spread -- before
the trucks
arrived with trusses
--
not that the bricks / stone steps
at home
with doowops for first
cousins
/ the kids
( as they were ) imagined
this -- grasping
first light -- rain
gladdened --
among
the hybrid
irises.
*
In three days --
sequencing blows --
storm severings --
the skeleton
and skating crews
-- the inflatable
lover -- left behind
on the scrub and the truck-littered
shoulder slope --
are -- with the weather
-- gone --
with the time and
cash
and deer and chance
for fortunes --
from this stoney
emptiness -- when
martyrdom's
fair trade -- a
bullet
to the brain / slit
throat --
because a captor
feels some whim
/ some eventual
and merciless
assent to
exercise.
*
We courted
love not homicide
--
vision
instead of cash
-- counted
on scraps
the winds carried
in -- the
carpet bits
and soundproofing
-- dropped off
in blank fields --
recalling that windy
fellowship
/ and the knuckles
set
on harm or on
indifference.
*
Hundreds of
Ohio dollars spent
--
for this leveling
and laid stone
-- and -- driving
afterward -- returning
to you Elizabeth --
gentled
by love we know
before that awful precipice
/ against the
flowering full
storm.
See how these
( statewide ) snows
endure the weekday rains --
and rinds hold color
still --
the lingo goes so far --
looking for clearance
now --
for containers
you might believe were left
with innocence -- since
this is trash
day
in some parts --
and -- having gone
so far --
what's not to
detonate?
*
No wonder the land's inspiring!
But
what should we wish
ourselves -- for the detainees
in their cages -- walking
the sands and
filling our shore-bags
after all -- leaving
these traces of
found love
/ this fragmentary
and timely stuff
behind
in footprints
to discover / designs
to suit some
interests.
*
But where do we get our facts --
except : in the
tricks
/ the intonations
-- the games
eyes play
( and ears ) -- in
the minds
of news crews
and consumers -- and
clients --
each to each --
with sterile terms
for proof --
presuming / personally --
to share the hauntings
homes
were famous for -- and
waking from dreams a second time --
believing the accents
left behind in rented
vehicles
/ the logic of
homes
where spooks spent
lifetimes
on their costumes
--
correcting a seam
maybe --
a father and
son
in full depending
on the spirit.
*
Because a poem's
been changed
so far -- because
an adventure or
thought -- because
die-cast hand-enameled
vehicles --
the khakis have all
been changed --
worn bottom-frayed
-- because
there's work to do around the buildings --
It's easy to mistake
the gladness
come to us -- out in the yards
let's say --
sharing the looks
she shares --
and taking your arm
-- to show you
where she's seen
them
coursing the smoke
-- leaf smoke --
or finding their
ways
( themselves ) through
The Bittersweet
Gift Corner -- among
the prompts
/ the registries /
the places where
water lapped the edges
round --
little by little
drew -- and then
drew back from the pine woods
--
the logic of exhibits
now
/ of intimate vespers
/ rooms
/ of the pileated
suawa woods
-- what
keeps us awake
some nights they
call the winds
osamas.
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Rio:
A Journal of the Arts