Tuesday, June 28, 2016

this far from the sun now

Note to Erin on Some Details of the World

It is still cool, and the breeze smells like rain.  
The aroma of the wild roses is, in sheltered places, 
as thick and sweet as some pink fluid coating 

my throat, with a faint fraction of decay, at the verge 
between almost too much and more, please.
As I come to the best raspberries, a deer crashes off 

into the shadows. I don't think they eat raspberries; 
it just happened to be there. I sit above the waterfall, 
and light comes down through openings 

in the leaves, reflects off ripples in the pool, 
and back up, onto the leaves' ribbed undersides, 
this far from the sun now, pulsing like pale banked embers. 

Monday, June 20, 2016

an open vein of fear

Lascaux: Virginia, c. 1968

The chubby boy who dreams of dogs: a pack
of slat-ribbed, fever-eyed strays, snapping mouths
raw with mange. Hemmed in, no running back
or forward on the mud path behind the house,
a cramped passage between the weedy hill
too steep for escape and a hopeless blank wall
of tar paper siding. As they slouch in for the kill,
he swings a broken stick, is too soft, is small.

Often, paralyzed, the dogs. Then the night a horse
steps into his room, nothing funny, uncombed mane,
hooves strange on the floor, moving like a horse
toward the bed. He tastes an open vein
of fear spilled in his throat. He thinks he is awake
and dreads knowledge, knowing the horse will speak.