N.J. in Menemsha)
the east, falling and falling across my pewtered
dropping sweet moisture where dim rainbow doves emerge:
and sudden. He stopped it with a spear
bring his splintered family back --- a clever trick,
its sequel is troubled: the aging hero,
with honors and the pull of old journeys,
off an Ithacan cliff.
subtle as weather or unfolding smoke,
as upland boars, the traveling pitchman found.
displacement was the rule, each healthy urge turned monstrous,
down. And who am I to judge that pilgrim’s
lies to clear his own path home?
you in your time and me in mine, this quiet space
charm against unquiet days, I track dove murmurs in the
oaks, and put my boots
on the rail; and simplify.
First published in Adirondack Review, Spring 2014