Poetry

what color is your collar Boss
is your backbone sore from bending over
when you clap your hand against your thigh
does a little cloud of dust fly off

At first only fog lifting off
the snow and snow
     sifting through it,

Blue fluid in my limbs,
momentum buoys me up
at takeoff speed

Half his life he parachuted
from open cockpits in swamp fog,
and the other madly scouted

An inundation! The sky’s ocean broke!
Hour after hour the dense fall drums on us,
So thick it almost hides the hills, like smoke.

Wildly dissimilar
yet actuated by the same fear,
the hippopotamus and the wild-deer
hide by the same river.

Now let the cycle sweep us here and there,
we will not struggle;
somewhere,
under a forest-ledge,
a wild white-pear
will blossom;