(the old man told his grandson)
that fleck of light out yonder is Venus
all by itself, out in the dark
can we go there?

would take my old truck a hundred
years to make it, and there ain't no air
what do people breathe
on that planet?

ain't no people, just a mess
of smelly clouds and hot rocks
it looks so small from here
and white, very white

that's light from the sun
grandson, and that tricks our eyes, even here
wait, grandpa, I see another light
blinking, going to Venus

that's a big old jet,
fifty far miles from here
but it's getting closer to Venus
see it, will it land there?

no boy, it won't come any closer
to that fried rock than we are to Mars
I see it, see, I see it, closer
even closer, blinking

I told you light tricks your eyes
I s'pose you'll figure that out later
wait, wait, I can't see it anymore
did it land on Venus?

maybe, maybe so, son
but I don't know for sure, it's just gone
*'cuz light tricks our eyes, right
grandpa, right?

the old cruiser sat in his drive
tires as tired as time, the whole car speckled
with bird droppings from his oak

back seat still the same:
scarlet blood dried black from
the boy's brief ride

justified use of force
the grandest jury decreed; still they made him
put up his sword and shield

the sullied car part of his severance,
his Crown Vic replaced by a fat SUV, and he
replaced by his own deputy

he knew it less was a blessing
than a curse, the cruiser turned hearse
gifted to him

the men had tried it scrub it clean
but the boy he felled was eighteen; his blood
copious, stubborn, and a condign reminder

of the sheriff’s last night as the law,
of his frenzied futile attempt to save
the boy, the “deceased”  

whose last testament was scrawled
in the bowels of the car that now sat still as stone,
alone with its red written tale

it never occurred to him,
not even late in the light of day,
he had paid scant attention
to birds

he heard the mourning doves
and saw a black ****** of crows scavenge
for crumbs at his feet at the outdoor cafe;
a crimson cardinal caught his eye, once

but most days he looked little
to the skies, and couldn't tell a wondrous warbler
from a fine finch--vultures and eagles were the same:
carrion eaters, high flyers

this, his avian compendium complete,
save hummingbirds he recalled outside his kitchen window
as a child, when his mother would bake bread
and fill the feeder with sugar water

the buzzing birds had caught his eye, until
his mother passed; then he failed to feed the tiny flock;
where they went he did not know, for he had little
wonder where winged creatures go

another one,
Burma, Indo-China
steamy burial grounds
for pilots who lost their way
or were clipped from the sky
by the ****

unfortunate chaps
who were picked clean
goggle-eyed skeletons when
we retrieved them--all so a family
a million miles gone could have
a closed casket of bones

then we got orders
to head north, to the passes
that sliced peaks too high for
our biggest birds, too cold
for fuel to burn with air
what little there was

we landed at a Tibetan strip
more slush than snow, and hiked
the full day to the site, bags for bones
on our shoulders, **** for brains it seems,
since the boys we found were frozen
solid, crisp as the day they died

two of them, staring through
a fine cockpit,  dead as dirt, but
preserved by the mountains' white
air, ready for redemption while we sat,
smoked, and puzzled how to haul
them whole from the heavens

in this pasture,
one hundred days past,
scores cheered as the current coursed
through Bundy's body

this evening, I am here,
solitaire, except for my *****,
the cattle, and the fireflies sprinkled
against the night

my spaniel nips
at the flies, but they are quick,
eluding her jaws to perform
a brilliant alchemy again

amidst this spectacle,
cows chew their cud, unperturbed, unaware
it seems, magical lightning comes without
thunder from these creatures

the bovines don't scatter
as I walk among them--perhaps they’ve forgotten
those revelers here on a crisp winter night, eager
to celebrate an extinguishing of light