366 Readings | 1 Rating
Hunt
The trees assert a sky
and scattered wake in scarbeak birds of prey.
Red grasses rise, thicken, dry along the woods.
Dogs, spiraling in stasis, did roam—
The fox returned home, slashed against the gray
fences, rewired the rust of seasons in its hair.
Reflective eyes trespass—sniff at black
leaves, fade in the corncrib and snaking runnels’
hinge in corrugated tin damp. Under boards—
a huff and quick, white from tail to temple thunders.
You are the last junkfire of the calendar year.
::
The sun’s slashed palm falls outward.
Without scar, there is no child.
Let there be no child.
Or let the scar flash from thunderheaded wombs
too distant to fear. Every few centuries the land fills—
meadows reclaim their store of stone.
I would wake here,
but the lakefish wouldn’t buy my corpse.
Nor would neighbors, fretting behind screens.
At evening, a rosary of lawns and a doe,
running in the breaks. The trees assert a sky.
and scattered wake in scarbeak birds of prey.
Red grasses rise, thicken, dry along the woods.
Dogs, spiraling in stasis, did roam—
The fox returned home, slashed against the gray
fences, rewired the rust of seasons in its hair.
Reflective eyes trespass—sniff at black
leaves, fade in the corncrib and snaking runnels’
hinge in corrugated tin damp. Under boards—
a huff and quick, white from tail to temple thunders.
You are the last junkfire of the calendar year.
::
The sun’s slashed palm falls outward.
Without scar, there is no child.
Let there be no child.
Or let the scar flash from thunderheaded wombs
too distant to fear. Every few centuries the land fills—
meadows reclaim their store of stone.
I would wake here,
but the lakefish wouldn’t buy my corpse.
Nor would neighbors, fretting behind screens.
At evening, a rosary of lawns and a doe,
running in the breaks. The trees assert a sky.
Posted 12/11/09