Month: April 2016

a panther pads out of the blinds,

spins on the ceiling fan;

the dog growls, makes three turns,

bites his tail

 

prayers, unfinished, drift

upward into the room

Old dogs bathed in mercury blue light

before dark farmhouses

bark at the noise of the airplane:

 

A bubble filled with strangers

who look out on pale-veined spiders

weaving web over the night

and are silent,

 

like when the dogs lay down to sleep,

and there is only wind.

The girl sulks; silence grown loud.

He shakes out the newspaper,

hides behind it, in the dark room

inside his heart.

feathers of fog drift down the hill

chest heavy, reverberating

 

quiet grows wet, breath laden

neat, blond wedges in knuckled-branch anarchy

 

the handle’s warm,

blade clean and cold, nicks across the edge

 

sparks spiral into night

 

Leg strings on crooked feet

stretched one big brown shoe forward,

then the other; arms jerked like panic

as he marched into the Schuylkill.

 

Smoke rose from him in ribbons.

His raised hand trembled,

stars and stripes forever and ever and ever.

 

Glockenspiel players twinkled like stars,

threw in their lot with trombonists

hooked to a moon crescent—

keys jangling on a warden’s ring.

 

rivers of traffic bustle under the bridge

in whirls of vertigo

 

high up, masked men work st. elmo’s fire,

curtains of sparks whip into

windy rooms between skyscrapers

 

women float through lobbies,

men pat bellies through revolving doors,

valets flick wrists, make cabs appear

 

back at the bridge, we watch men

at the wheels of trucks,

and listen to news from abroad

The Seer fiddles in his pockets:

mouse whiskers and rattlesnake traps,

badger teeth and bison horns,

Indian beads polished for trade.

 

He fishes out the square nail,

rusty and long,

that once held together Old Jones’ barn.

 

It buzzsaws in his palm,

rests only in winter dark

when sound freezes until spring

and moonlight turns snow silver,

 

And then, the nail points to a fold

in the canvas weave

heavy with the smell of coal smoke,

corn silk, milkweed tuft.

 

Moon money, legal tender

anywhere in the universe,

buys you quite a piece there.

He said he looked down

at the phalanx of suits,

a line of polished shoes,

the battalion of ties on the door

and couldn’t remember

when he wasn’t 51 years old.

he rolls over orion

who dives, shield first, into the horizon

 

he watches as the scorpion advances,

tail quivering over the hunter’s heel

 

the pleiades disappear in a breath,

reappear in the corner of your eye

We gather dry twigs and sticks

from bone-white trees,

put a spark to the pile.

Juniper smoke uncoils

from the smoldering ball.

 

Down in the valley,

coyotes yelp,

remind us to add air.