Anyway, they form a scooby-doo-esque gang of lovable misfits
And solve the mystery of why I keep waking up unsure of who I am
And why its so hard to explain what that means
Entering your life from the outside can be a jarring experience
The yard you plotted then planted has come back
wilder, the way seeming winterkill comes back wilder
for its next life. So you think, pruning-time! — when,
with a looming shadow and a gust of backwash,
the ponderous bird alights, the porch rail trembles with its weight.
a man must lean on his liquor
getting through the prayer line
walking fields with all colors
flaring soft or fired with hard light
the walnut shell his face is
the tan smeared greasy eyes
a mature man out of time
Son of Esarg
the axe-thrower, smelting and pin-lining coasts
with bronze whirls, smoothed by Macha’s shawl.
Forger of tools, lately found half-sunk in peat
in a depthless bog, with his elbow crooked upward. The gases
preserved his jacket, the raised sinew
on his small finger, and the blazoned buckle he himself fashioned.
What if this belly
was where you buried your sorrows
nestled into disappointment
shame and fear.
What if this belly
like the time you refused
and pledge allegiance.
My mind won’t place me there,
not today, or tomorrow, or
those four days in December,
when the drive became a ritual
and in the evenings, after the nurses
said enough, it’s almost Christmas
go home, sleep in your beds, not
hunched over like a burlap bag
of coffee beans on a storeroom floor;
My traitor tongue whispers tales like wind through mountain hollows, hugging teeth like clouds that cradle snowy peaks. I’ve mapped this topography in abundance, traced familiar trails like lines inked by well-worn pen, stain left to pool at base of storied waters.
Rittenhouse Square, Philadelphia, 2008 In mottled cotton, shambling toe-heel, toe-heel,Bass-ackwardsWith Zen concentration and breathing down the neck Of the square’sPath, sinking under the shards of bruised..