Twofer

I belong to an organization

made up of two factions

one literary [where I am]

& one technical, a brick

or possibly it is concrete

wall divides them

someone

drills a hole, inside it I see

bearded parts of a male face

I hear what the hell? 

literary females chuckle

I cut a window-size square

around the hole

I see

wires, devices, linoleum

the man blunders through

straddles a wooden chair

to lecture us, we don’t

listen, I suggest a private

conversation

he makes

room for me in the chair

we entangle, his bristles

galvanize my face, not here

I say, he persists, I cooperate

the organization flinches

Night & Day

the midnight smell is skunk

outside my open window

not unusual, seldom seen

except at first light

the smell gradually fades

as the skunk ambles off

this morning the smell

is smeared across the road

I’m out to take a look

head & fur appear intact

more scattered innards

surround the smashed tail

than seem would fit inside

I fetch the old snow shovel

push the body parts

from center line to weeds

& down the wooded slope

blood is no surprise

the gore makes me retch

the bare damp space

doesn’t say enough about

the truth — a slow crossing

a fast car — my fix

is simple, let’s outlaw cars

make us walk as if we

were wild animals too

postscript

four hours later

turkey vultures came

Alfresco

middle of the forest trail

a hawk peers at something

I can’t see, so engrossed

the hawk fails to see me

it lifts its prey in its talon grip

to the top of a tall stump

pitted by pileateds, morsel

by morsel the hawk feeds

I creep closer & closer

to see this hawk, a cooper’s

tawny breast, curved beak

so engrossed, me below

& now too close, the hawk

rises, turns, & flies away

great wings, barred tail

bloodied talons bare

Lost

flustered, he stops & stands

& stares through thin woods

to green lawn, residential buildings

I must have made a u-turn somewhere

he has a hard time believing

he’s lost, in his own woods

woods he’s owned for decades

that’s a good thing, I say

he won’t answer, won’t admit

that to own is not to understand

to own is often to misunderstand

when I too see the green lawn

I know I’m looking south

I’m ten steps from his property line

yet he’s lost, not because 

he doesn’t know where he is

but because he’s not where

he thought he would be

it’s a good thing to be lost

to need to scan the ground

for a traveled path, scan the trees

for a trail blaze, scan the sky

for sun or moon or stars

when I’m lost I think about

Walter Benjamin, how somewhere

between France & Spain, between

life & death, he chooses to die

which is worse? to live or die

to be lost or found, I prefer

to live & be lost, to proceed

along an unknown route, I know

whatever happens will

Feather Pendant

a wild turkey’s beard

hangs from a scrawny neck

flutters & sways, its beak

feeds on seeding grass

both eyes scan the surround

alert to any motion, aka me

I watch from the mudroom

one turkey, two turkeys

such large birds, yet so timid

so hesitant, so ungainly

though turkeys can fly

each night great wings

lift bulbous bodies to roost

like vultures, or raccoons

Turkey Tending

a small head on a long curved neck

kuk kuk kuks through tall grasses

I watch, utterly still, for the brown bobs

of ten poults foraging around her

they rock forward & back, investigate

every sunlit blade, lunge at ants

& centipedes & dragonflies

if I make a sound or turn my head

mother hen hustles, duly warned

her poults whirr up, flutter down

pitch & yaw around her bulk like boats

breasting a choppy sea, cluster close

then skitter off like wind-blown foam

to browse another field of green

Crows

are not white

they make noise

they do the dirty work

sun flashes off feathers

thronged with lice

eyes don’t bead, they shine

before a crow brought us fire

fable says crows were white

as if black were misfortune

stalk, stroll, shoulder toss

sheer black in clear light

chase a hawk, tear at roadkill

a crow is the first bird 

you see in a strange land

the last you hear as you leave

the world teems with crows

a crow’s caw transposes

one thing into something else

nothing is nothing to a crow

a gap doesn’t mean empty

every trace is a treasure to keep

Dream 23

how in the final act I circle the house

Chris at my side, or is she leading? am I

leading? we, no, I, need to put

something to rights, replace something

displaced while up the hill in front of us

great yellow machines scrape & shovel

growling while neighbors carp at the

early morning clamor, no place to park

what reconstruction have I commanded?

how have I come to live at the bottom of

this steep slope where Chris & I flounder

where suddenly Rich, my old dear friend

steps from a car, approaches all at ease

leans in, bewilders me with a kiss

Life Enough

I walk barefooted, bareheaded

a long, broad stretch of sand

death, the ocean, on my left

on my right, my lapsed life

scoured dunes crowned 

by crusts of parched earth

barely grasping skeletal trees

exposed roots, leafless limbs

espaliered against blue sky

I serenade seals who swivel 

sleek rounded heads to listen

five scoters, six or seven seals

terns shriek & dive for worms

plovers pussyfoot toward surf

for more than an hour not

one human, once companions

all gone, what remains is sand

is ocean, are broken shells

waterworn stones, birds, seals

let all these be life enough

lest no more is coming

Of fire, of rain

smell of brimstone

embered midnight sky

is Provincetown burning?

how many blackened souls

rise thru lightning & thunder

wind & pounding rain?

walls shudder

the roof thrums

but where do rabbits go?

robins? chipmunks? jays?

how sure is their shelter?

so many hours to wait

for weather’s ebb

another blue day’s dawn

Chickadee

lands on a branch

not far from me

I turn, I say, I sing 

chickadee-dee-dee

with each repeat 

chickadee flits closer

until she sits, rocking

a foot from my face

chickadee-dee-dee

black eye, black cap

what do you think I am

chickadee-dee-dee

Sketched on a Page

I labor up the hill, sail down

flanked by bees’ yellow shoulders, bent

black heads plunged in dandelion

yellow, brighter than daffodil yellow

bright as yellow crayon steered by fingers

drawing the sun, first the yellow circle

next the flaring rays above a red

house, blue roof, blades of grass

& now the family waves, hello

hello, I wave to them, & here we stay

frozen in motion, now dancing toward

now dancing away, today & tomorrow

we figures sketched on a page — 

hill, bees, child, sun, home

Dear Leafbud,

one among thousands

thronging the lilac across the road

dear knob furled tight

against night after night of frost

dear layer upon layer of frail film

clasped by cells formed

to swell in these lengthening days

to press upward & outward

toward light, toward warmth

toward the unknowable day

when your bindings loosen

your surfaces disengage

— tips, edges, inner planes —

embark on the perilous sea of air

poised to expose the dear green of you

the wind flutterability of you

the front & back, the shine & matte

of you & your kin, dear worshipful

multitude, dear prelude to

fistfuls of lavender flowers

Cusp

sun lights the trees to the west

the south, firs green, bare branches

tipped red, brimming with sap

yesterday’s flurries, flakes

to ground cover, to melt, by noon

every trace will be gone

blunt spikes of green grass

not yet sward, not yet streamers

the summer wind will sway

To Oak

russet hulls of acorns

the squirrels failed to gather

lie where they fall, hundreds

scattered underfoot

layered with sodden leaves

with wet & warming air

most hulls split open 

the swelling germ inside

divides, the radicle sets

on a blind search for soil