White rot on the garlic bulbs
is slowly felling the crop,
not all at once but one
by one. And so it goes,
disappointment. Sudden
failure is easier to bear
than watching these
leaves wilt from the tips,
almost as they would
when ready for harvest.
Which would be soon
if any pull through;
the gardener across
the way has ripped
his up, I’ve left
some in the hope–
in the hope. At this
point still reaping
what was sown but,
rocklike, it somehow
never seems to grow.
Sick as a dog all week
laid out on the sofa
watching the flight
of a ball miles upon
miles South. There’s
something to be said
for a 90 minute match,
clear elation or heart
-break within a man
-ageable amount of
time. And staying on
the pitch, playing
until time. I might
even forgive a dive
for attention, lazy
but at least it shows
a type of keenness
that these days
seems so rare.
To be honest I’ve lost three places.
It’s how things come. My dad
wrote that the last time he didn’t
see any jellyfish, sometimes
the winds push them into
Mobile Bay, line the shores
with orange-striped remains.
Then storms would roll in
from the Gulf, kick up a chop
and pulverize them till every
wave had bits of barbs
and every swim was risky.
The ocean always giving
and taking, constellations
of coquina shells along
the surf, three houses
during the last big
hurricane, but it never
got ours. We used to sit
out on the porch and guess
who would be next, I suppose
we were right in some ways.
June bugs, thunderstorms,
hurricane glass. I had never
been so far from home or
so long from it.
Some places are just
hanging on, even as a kid
you can feel it, floating on
the surface while the river
runs deep. Don’t let that
dog out all alone, there’s
gators. I lost this place,
all the way. First an empty
boat slip, the pool filled in,
then huddled in the workshop
after the wake, sawdust
and dust like snow,
snow laughable in this
kind of heat. Everything
used to seem bigger,
still, the screen door
sighed shut after us
in the same old way.
I sleep to wake and wake to dream
in dappled shade some long afternoon
which says more I do not know:
the way the foothills fall under the lake
or how this absence shores them up
as I sleep to wake and wake to dream
quiet descends when the heat pump fades
everything has a voice and a silence of its own
and which speaks louder I do not know
the grapes are small before summer’s bite—
there’s always a lack, now heat, then shade
I sleep then wake and wake then dream
and wake in relief or wake with regret
from the presences along the borderline
and which speaks louder I do not know
we’ll fill in gaps with paving stones
but I’ll nap until that time comes
I wake to sleep and sleep to dream
and which speaks louder I do not know
[New series idea — poems I have mis-remembered, combined, or otherwise garbled the opening lines. sorry Roethke.]
Here the sun is emphatic,
entering rooms just after five
and falling in blocks across
the comforter. We stayed up
past one to watch the moon,
the honey moon, rise over
the lake, electrifying it.
But all I cold say was wow.
It’s been days since I last
woke at 3 am, I can’t say
I miss it but in some ways
I do. There was a spider
tracing the floorboard, right
as I turned out the light.
I killed it — usually don’t,
but there’s too many
poisonous ones here.
It seems things still get
a little wilder at night,
but these days I sleep
through everything, and
wake with bites.
A strange morning, almost foreign;
a stand of mini-Cypress outside
the grocery. I wanted to buy one,
to buy a Cedar, to do something,
anything out of the ordinary. Small
change can grow, trees know this
of all things, which is why they
make such good company.
The neighbors that used to fight
all night moved out. The couple
that moved in argues louder
and later. Plus ca change…
Today I am resisting. I will
put a stick in the creek,
watch the current split
in two directions. I think
we should do the same.
Today I am in opposition–
Am I right? (Is the stick?)
These things just happen.
Opened all the windows
but the house still smells
like sleep.
Outside, some
children communicate
through primal screaming,
a clash of sticks and
gratings.
Out for the summer,
what do they care about
the intrinsic sadness
of Sunday morning,
that there’s still some time yet —
never meaning what it
means to mean: for them
meaning nothing, with age
meaning regret.
This is the most unsettling sky:
A white sky. A dead sky;
blank– even the birds roll
right off. Bright, it admits
that it is day. No more than that.
OPTIONAL POETRY 