My father was a red-tailed hawk

flying high above my youth

A fine and feral form was he

with wings so wide and long enough

to suit my myths and distance too

to better serve my sullen, silent ways

Though I see now

among my multiplying years

I'd built that sky and placed him there

no better cage a son could find

and with him dead ten years and more

the cage passed on to sons of mine

I find in dreams he's come to ground

and in the early hours will call

a sign to me that he is near

and watching now as I watch

over my own

The big doors roll open

at sunrise        at sunset

they roll closed

the man with the hand truck

moves his bins and flats

his palette loads       across the lot


Living downhill

from a fruit stand

I’ve come to accept

that joy can appear

at your feet

Red Delicious, Braeburn

Fuji and maybe

D’Anjou on a good day

Valencia Vidalia or Walla Walla

Sweet

Reach down       pick up


Be open hearted         don’t

expect too much--

the little that comes your way

tastes in its scarcity

full of life       this life       your life


I pray uphill in the morning

and I pray uphill at night

to the God of Gravity                                *Satsuma!

Descending

into the storage box was like seeing

a Titanic

on the bottom of the sea

I

drop

layer

by

layer

through yellowed envelopes

overflowing

photos and negatives

which darken with age

and depth


Pressure rises

pipes begin to rattle and spray

threatening

the newspaper clippings

report cards, death announcements

the fragments of genetic strands

now spread about my feet

as though they'd fallen

from a great height


On the bottom sits the old house

amazingly uncrushed, porch still unswept

of maple leaves

and Mary, witness to another world

in button shoes

astride the steps like a masthead

smiling as she

maps    

my

bones

I have a scratch

between the shoulders

I seek a cedar post

sun splintered warm

upon which to soothe my spine

                                                        
S­liding down, then sideways

across old sintered ribs

I leave bits of myself behind

                                                        
Like horse hair caught in the grain

or an unfinished poem--words

left after my leaving

fair for any bird to claim

A young man swings from the arms

all wrong if there's hay to mow

the hips must rotate first

then back and arms together

driving off the legs

a pendulum of method

easy later, years later

and harder than imagined

if there's hot sun overhead

muscles cramping

or if the mind keeps coming back

to a woman somewhere



The best poems drive off the legs as well

no effort wasted following

a natural arc of back and forth

around and through



I try to learn the art of the scythe

cutting away not grain nor grass nor thistle

but edifice, contrivance, camouflage

this stuff packed round and held in place

with garden hose, bailing wire, military webbing—I am

a fiddler crab in my way

lurching forward waving

one blind blade

at the world

Library book
              
on Rin Tin Tin

dog-eared

bookmark wagging