Is My Oyster

Back in the woods, not the deep woods,
(There are no more really deep woods,
Not of the kind made of forests,
Only those Black Forests of dreams),

The enameled blue lid of sky
Clicks snugly over peaks and trees,
And jeweled heat glows from inside,
And the observer is a pearl,

A diorama, a dancer,
A revolving scenario
Folded in the bright box of day,
Content for the lid not to open.

Street

After days indoors, in the woods,
A few moments in the village,
The pavement of a mid-sized town
Thunders, reeks, and swarms with bodies.

A piece of shit pick-up truck thumps
Someone's clumps of awesome music,
Making the change in a busker's
Acoustic guitar case shiver.

I pretend not to be impressed
With my species' plague on the world,
Sensing how meaningless it is,
But, goddam, this is just one speck

Of modern town in the mountains,
A small dot of population
On any global cities map,
And it's not just loud and crowded,

It's a piece of flying island,
A chunk of anthro ecozone
With the same sparrows and pigeons
And carbon-monoxide backbeats

As can be found in any city,
Mutatis mutandis, on earth.
These are not just loads of bipeds--
A monstrous nonsense congregates.

Noon

Metaphor for showdown,
No one here to trouble
Honor but mosquitoes,

The day, the northern sun,
The sliver of summer,
And the calendar year

All at or near center,
Wobbliest abstraction
On a wobbly planet,

Eliot's seduction,
The still point of turning,
Heart of stillness, the light,

Forget about it, son,
That thrush you hear singing,
That breeze roaming the trees,

Those Albertan hikers
Bright as tropical fish
Returning from the falls,

Anything you perceive
Would vanish in stillness,
The peace with the nuisance

Passing understanding
Because it is, you are,
Forever off center,

Not here, not gone, going,
There is no metaphor
For noon in the forest.

The Present Moment

Fresh daylight shines
On a small, hand painted sign
Sticking out of the wild grass.

"CAUTION
Undercut
Bank."

Beside the sign
There's a crude log bench
For meditating on the view

And the monotone thrum
Of the invisible river
Falling down to the lake forever.

Miles behind the sign,
The tops of the trees
Climb the opposite side.

The Whispering

In a fever dream you wonder
If you've written about this dream
Before. The air outside

Smells cool and healthy,
The air within an inch of you
Roasts and sickens.

You should write something
Cheerful to help you recover,
But you have no idea

Which cheerful thought
Or image might do the trick:
The cheeping siskins in the branches

Just outside your sickroom window,
Your toddler daughter hugging you,
"Hel-lo Papa, hel-lo Papa!"

The knowledge you are well-loved
Despite your myriad compounding flaws,
The wind still whispering "tomorrow"?

Bivouac on Carpenter Creek

All night long, small watch fires burned
Here and there in brain and bone.
Intruders crept through the dark.
The lungs would panic and cough
At the slightest disturbance.
The mouth swallowed itself dry,
And a thick fog bleared the dawn.

A muttering runs through the corps:
Where will we be marched to next?
This day could hold anything
Between now and next midnight,
The bones crawl back in their bunks
And try to lie very still,
Hoping others fight for them.

Knox Hall Summer's Night Dream

This night was one for the ghosts
Who haunted the conversation
Wrapped in ever-present fog
As the water kept rising,
When going outside was an act

More of defiance than midsummer
Dreaming, the rain cocooning
Every slug and snail and tree root
In a ghastly wet embrace, love
That will give forth beauty

Long after this evening has drowned
In the mouth of a forgiving bog
That so improbably preserves our criss-
Crossed phosphorescent trails of laughter
In a lit room in a small hall in the dark.