the hour is slowly dragging its feet behind the second hand and gravity’s magnetism is and was and will be pulling the hands clockwise to a-tick- tick-ticking
the cars going by outside on the interstate forever north, forever south, through the perpetual seasons changing color, the cars a-whir-whir-whirring
and the faucet coming from the endless sea and eternal waves, the fish there no one ever sees, my bathroom faucet a-drip-drip-dripping
who cares it is an everyday occasion
that moves steadily forward that mocks my dying.
The Blue Snow goose is rare in these here parts the boy tells me. Thinks he was brought over here cause of the early cold wind from Colorado, maybe. The hunter shot him down south of Atlanta in some Georgia pines near a swamp. Birds were probably lookin for some water he says. He will have him stuffed and hung on a plaque above his new baby boy’s crib. “Commemoratin’ his birth and all”. He showed me a picture of the bird dangling from his hand and limp as any umbilical cord on the afterbirth. He was a magnificent bird.
a word that rhymes
but doesn’t say a word settles
lightly on my boots snow
that doesn’t want to fall agrees to
fall only because it is winter only
because it can take the space of
a lost word above our stepping
The old dog sleeps in the bend of my waist. Warm and secure. Stillness in a silent dream. Her breathing is consistent and relaxed. She is in a state of unplay as our planning for Christmas is finally over but our planning for what is next has already begun. Our human consistency is in digging up the ground looking for our buried bone while my old dog has learned that the hunt is only worth it if we learn to just keep warm in the bend of another living thing.
Driving at Night
A woman emerges
from the dark curves
of a mountain road
to see night
by a red moon
in a way that a jar of fireflies
digest the fears
of a child
alone in a dark room
has gone to sleep.