Poetry

All day I’ve followed roads. Have I come that far?
Terre Haute, Greencastle. Kokomo’s not close, but not far.

The first time you swallow—
the light, lurid and cold—

You have always been nosebleed 
     and nail-bite, the spit-shined halls 
where you harvested us with your tribal 
     clang. Too long we saw your face 
in every shadow, felt the whole forest 
     await your arrival like a nagging frost.  

Not that you ever are. The small, rough dogs lie at your feet or warm your belly.

It’s hard for
the master
sharpener after
all that work
to have the shaft
taken for the point.

You can oversell
the sea, say, or
the way we miss

Fox spots Crow in the top of a tree.
“That carrion she pecks must come to me.”
He ponders how to ply his wit
And award himself the whole of it.

He was the last cowboy in Massachusetts,
stabling the palomino in his mother’s garage,

            It was amusing to see
     The quick pet Sparrow and the Cat
     Engage in harmless duels that
  Exercised their friendly rivalry.

I’ve fluttered around the edge of cliques,
pressed my beak against the bars,
not in envy, but out of interest,
and for the little warm
glow they give off.