Five Poems
Dan’s Music
Dan likes to sit on the upstairs porch in cyberspace
overlooking the mountains.
His chair on the porch is directly above
my chair in the room below.
Along with the faint songs of human talking,
I can just hear the baseline of his music
(usually fast) and the high notes.
I should pay more attention to Dan’s music,
which tells me to hurry but doesn’t say where.
It’s a distant subliminal constellation overhead,
indistinct. I should open my ear to it,
and my eye to the alpenglow
and my nose to the rain-bearing wind.
I should pay close attention to all of it
because all of it is all there is.
Dan likes to sit on the upstairs porch in cyberspace
overlooking the mountains.
His chair on the porch is directly above
my chair in the room below.
Along with the faint songs of human talking,
I can just hear the baseline of his music
(usually fast) and the high notes.
I should pay more attention to Dan’s music,
which tells me to hurry but doesn’t say where.
It’s a distant subliminal constellation overhead,
indistinct. I should open my ear to it,
and my eye to the alpenglow
and my nose to the rain-bearing wind.
I should pay close attention to all of it
because all of it is all there is.
How Canada Geese Became Holy
Year after year
the first muted yelping
calls up an anxiety I can’t name—
fleeting, familiar,
something close to acknowledgement
that a God is near.
I’m scattering echinacea seed
in the meadow,
the strange dark red ones
that appeared one summer
from nowhere and spread—
a plastic bag of sharp black seed-heads,
still intact but releasing the seed easily
when I roll the heads between finger and thumb.
I throw handfuls where deer bedded down
last night in the meadow,
flattening the uncut lupine and grasses.
I hear the first faint bird-barking,
and see the wavering V of winter coming on.
It takes me back to childhood.
Dad shooting birds in the October woods.
I’d pluck them on the walk home.
Year after year
the first muted yelping
calls up an anxiety I can’t name—
fleeting, familiar,
something close to acknowledgement
that a God is near.
I’m scattering echinacea seed
in the meadow,
the strange dark red ones
that appeared one summer
from nowhere and spread—
a plastic bag of sharp black seed-heads,
still intact but releasing the seed easily
when I roll the heads between finger and thumb.
I throw handfuls where deer bedded down
last night in the meadow,
flattening the uncut lupine and grasses.
I hear the first faint bird-barking,
and see the wavering V of winter coming on.
It takes me back to childhood.
Dad shooting birds in the October woods.
I’d pluck them on the walk home.
The Fulcrum
I imagined it to be an invisible pyramid
upon which the horizon balances,
which turns out to be roughly correct.
The fulcrum is the tipping-point,
the imaginary summit.
I tried to imagine the far side,
the downslope, the post-pinnacle world,
but especially the pinnacle itself,
always invisible.
I stood on the summit without
knowing it. There were no cairns.
A strange thing happens when
you can no longer look back
over your shoulder and see the land
in which you abandoned your past.
There it is, like a big scrapbook,
but you can’t open it anymore.
It’s in storage for now.
Now and evermore. That’s because
you can’t see the far side
of the fulcrum from either side.
I imagined it to be an invisible pyramid
upon which the horizon balances,
which turns out to be roughly correct.
The fulcrum is the tipping-point,
the imaginary summit.
I tried to imagine the far side,
the downslope, the post-pinnacle world,
but especially the pinnacle itself,
always invisible.
I stood on the summit without
knowing it. There were no cairns.
A strange thing happens when
you can no longer look back
over your shoulder and see the land
in which you abandoned your past.
There it is, like a big scrapbook,
but you can’t open it anymore.
It’s in storage for now.
Now and evermore. That’s because
you can’t see the far side
of the fulcrum from either side.
His Absence
No martini glasses in sight,
no secret ashtrays.
I can’t ask him anything—
locked in a dark library,
all that he knew and remembered
lost to us both.
And the whole world of the night
has gone missing,
including the scent of our joy.
No martini glasses in sight,
no secret ashtrays.
I can’t ask him anything—
locked in a dark library,
all that he knew and remembered
lost to us both.
And the whole world of the night
has gone missing,
including the scent of our joy.
The Fact
The moment Russell died,
Rebus woke up
and put his nose right
to Russell’s mouth,
long enough to know.
Then he bathed him.
He licked his head, his eyes,
and a long time his ears,
his neck, and the chest
not covered by the nightshirt,
then one forearm, wrist,
hand with the ring,
other forearm, wrist,
hand without the ring.
When Rebus finished anointing
the body, he went back to sleep.
He knew for a fact that Russell was gone,
and never went looking for him again.
The moment Russell died,
Rebus woke up
and put his nose right
to Russell’s mouth,
long enough to know.
Then he bathed him.
He licked his head, his eyes,
and a long time his ears,
his neck, and the chest
not covered by the nightshirt,
then one forearm, wrist,
hand with the ring,
other forearm, wrist,
hand without the ring.
When Rebus finished anointing
the body, he went back to sleep.
He knew for a fact that Russell was gone,
and never went looking for him again.
