Sleetmagazine.com

On the Death of Georges Braque

Creeks in full voice after rain,
a dusting of snow on Pine Mountain.

 

The river unreels a thousand miles
from the finger of a willow.

 

Loons call, steadily reaffirming
their covenant with the horizon.

 

A red fox slips by attending fully,
eye to eye, without breaking stride

 

through winter's pared down palette,
raw sienna, burnt umber, all-embracing.

 

We're captured in the amber light—
the earth near, infinitely near.

        For Susan

 

To the Great Enigma

Ever since you were indistinct faces,
red and blue boats on a lampshade,

the bars of my crib, I've pondered you,
getting no closer — maybe farther away

as if my train never left the station
while the world shot by too fast.

Po Chü-i addressed his worn broom,
a winged ant, the greens of moss—

deep conversations with extraordinary
friends, praising and mourning.

I must be going the wrong way,
grappling with you gets me nowhere.

The bench seems welcoming,
a reverent mood waited for me here.

I attend to your long sky, your hawks
heading west, your dog looking back.

 

Hundred Percent Chance of Rain

The winter sky is dirty nickel.
Crows solve walnuts with gravity and street.
Rain will fall with the south wind.

Gut feelings roost in my rib cage—
where's that blood clot that was behind the knee?
The far-seeing condor drops her plumes
from tremendous altitude.

I have my appetites, but there's hunger
from a larger place that involves me
in its hunting and gathering,

carries me up and opens the hand.

 

Just Joey

Churning airs raise dust
and leaves into sunlit whirlwinds
scouring the street.

Job's lord instructs his hornets.
Elijah's horses scream.

Thirty thousand single wings
come to life for the fifteen thousand
birds of my soul.

I pull down my shabby hat,
retreat a safe distance,
carry my crippled dog indoors.

 

To a Gift of Rainbow Obsidian the Size of an Ear

Held to the light—
a spectral egg awakens inside
just beyond grasp

and elusive faces,
one that drowned at sea
fifty years ago with her dark eyes.

Near the hand
framing my phantoms in you,
windblown rain

drums on windowpanes
and almost reaches
my salt.

 

They come from remote regions of sorrow
—Federico Garcia Lorca

Jesus is coming—

a crow as big as a small chicken,
acting like everything depends on him,

picks up a twig, puts it down, struts
into the crossroads and caws.

The gnarly old pear suddenly flowers—Lazarus
startles Lazarus. I can see through my death.

Winds plumb the hollows of a horse's skull,
the far shore near through the eyes.

 

Fleeing Nebuchadnezzar

The doe with the split ear is listening
in three directions while foraging
under the oaks.

William Stafford once said to my ears,
Maybe some things happen because
we’re paying attention.

A crow cocks one eye, then takes my picture
from the other side of his mind
and carries it off.

I climb golden Pine Mountain to greet
the dragons flying east at sunset
with their tails on fire.

Maybe if I just calm down
birds will land on my shoulders

and the one-eyed yellow cat will leap
into my arms and talk.

 

Today's Gospel

The pasture gate groans,
seven horses lift
their heads.

There are birds
in the fountain,
bees in the lavender.