The Pigeon Guillemot
Odd, sooty children raise me
through morning shades with their seeking
and hiding along the wave-stilled beach,
whistling out their shrill, stretched necks.
Glissading down on stubby, white-specked wings,
sun-slipped from cliff and crevice,
they assemble for the chase, balance on driftwood
and squeal like a circus of pinched balloons.
Jesus walked. These fowl sprint, orange feet
splattering a rippled runway into flight.
They wobble among rocks, peek
from the chop an dplumply pipe the weather
before lighting to their daily fish.
I turn to the verse of their wakes, mark the ink
of their plumes as they dive—saved
by each clownish foot.
The Call
Long before I saw one
I heard a loon
in my cousin's hands
cupped to his lips—willow.
He tried to teach me how
flesh could find one shape.
I hoped and hoped
into a mouthpiece of thumbs
but the air was empty.
Through this morning's rain
a loon tosses its call
as if it were nothing
and the sound, now, is full
of distance—hollow.
I hoped and hoped
into a mouthpiece of thumbs
but the air was empty.
Through this morning's rain
a loon tosses its call
as if it were nothing
and the sound, now, is full
of distance—hollow.
When in Doubt, Try Northwest
The corn when crazy when I left,
jerking and hopping golden jubilee
as when the train shuts the small town
down. A smoky muser whistled
through coffee and a gap, pulled his cap
and agreed it didn't used to be this way.
I left like a Ford-swearing farmer
cruising new crops. Just as the last tomatoes
were fished from the garden,
the final ounces of oil steamed from mint,
a few remaining peaches sliced and eaten,
as grass fields burned and geese beat south
I fled toward the rain. |