The Heart Attacks

 

This appeared in Poetry Proper

High above Denver, itself taller than Wales,

we attempt the ordinary for its

postcard values — lunch a picturesque burger,

a cup of coffee to make Wordsworth ooh.

And the heart attacks, then retreats, no more

to be cajoled. It sounds taps. The Dead March.

And the mountains smile at a bag of chips,

2 boys holding hands, the belly-button

ring of the busy barista. Good grief,

it follows good night, the morrow not

a bit like the last. We are closer here

to the sun. We burn easily. We heed

hydration. We needed a refreshed start.

Now you‘ve a cage to hold open your heart.

The blood rushes home, leaves, goes home again,

back to the valleys where the coal burns slowly.

The Thaw

Damme, is that a fence across the stream?

Beavered, perhaps, but, damme, it looks stout.

I shall be released some day, the big fish says,

But not to me. No ear for gospel, moi;

It’s something of a logjam where I sing,

Up there along the snowfall. A new growl

Foretells the coming breakup. There’s a line,

Current events, I guess, I shall not use,

But if I did, what I would catch would fit

The coming morning I have prophesied,

But will not live to see. If you should, do.

The Moon We've Got

We have none. What you want, what you are seeking

In books and from that cave inside the pit,

We don’t have that. What you have not pursued

Over the river and through the woods, we stock,

And we can locate what you‘d rather not.

We do not stock elixirs, though. Heart’s-ease

Is unavailable this time of year.

The talking mirror set, with comic brush,

We just ran out, whenever you came in.

Riches that do not callous the heart, those beans

That everybody wants? Nobody has.

A second chance? A second second chance?

You could ask for the moon. The moon we’ve got.

It comes in sizes—young and growing old.

Spring Song

 

In the symmetry of seasons we have spring

today, winter tomorrow, spring again
the rest of the week, but all without the edge,
the knifeblade chill, that fall is always flaunting.
Something is happening here, and it is green.

Runners keep trying to run in shorts, retreating
to polar fleece, renaturing bare skin.
The snowdrops are almost done before the crocus
are more than scallions. Every day the stalks
need Lebensluft and take it. Every day

the light advances on the night, the poise
of seasons, symmetry and share alike,
spins on the scented air, which can be spent
but never saved. Accumulation fails;
and winter waits in Wollongong, or somewhere.

Home Bodies

 In a slightly different form, this appeared in Lyric.

These trees that stand around and watch

Will never say they don’t approve

Of you; but while you’re crying they,

Unless by wind, will never move

To help. In laying down their claim

So deeply into stony earth,

They have exchanged all sympathy

For knowing what you’re likely worth

To such as they’ve become. Goodbye.

You may depart now. They won’t care.

These trees will not unclasp their roots

To see you off to anywhere.