Poetry

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.

Consider the bowerbird and his obsession
of blue, and then the island light, the acacia,
the grounded beasts. Here, the iron smell of blood,
the sweet marrow, fields of grass and bone.

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—

Has there ever been a group of agnostics so intent
upon meaning
in every car door shutting

I had just taken her photograph.
Everyone else crowded on the back deck, 
talking, flirting, admiring the silver
of sunset in their drinks. 

When we found out our daughter had gone deaf,
I did not question God’s fairness—