Here It Is

 

Here is a list of what I can't remember—

I'm kidding, of course. No, wait. Here is a list.

What time it was. How old I was. Who came

And what she brought. The capital of Chi.

The publication dates of What's-His-Name

And when I hit him. All the horses' men.

Pringles & Funyuns. All the rabbi's girls.

The Queen of Hearts and Blackjack Mulligan.



To few of these have I been reconciled.

I shall not steal your money, and your wife

Is safe if I'm awake. A coral reef,

Teeming with spirits, angelfish and clowns—

Did I see that, or was it someone's book,

Lost in the fires of '71, the last

Post just before the world grew up and left,

The bitter end of something bittersweet? 

Over Land

 

What is the sound of Puget in the fall?

It seems to be an owl who doesn’t show

What or when or why or where. Below

His wings no squeak escapes the wood. The call

Of the meek, the gently terrified, the bland

Seed-swallowers, is wishful in the dark:

That they had never occupied the land,

But joined the doves escaping from the ark

To anywhere. None of the toothsome tots

Asks for a story. Tell me nothing more,

They say. We already have lots and lots

To share. Pray with us to the predator.

The owl is looking at the looming shore

And pivots towards a land of limbs and knots.