OPTIONAL POETRY

Still going.  The hills
were plywood tonight,

rolled in from offstage
and heavy on pastels.

The rain passed
with alacrity;

the clouds that were
left were dumb sheep

things.  They say
the coyote came

as close as this deck,
more brazen in winter,

a prouder pariah.
I’m not there yet,

feeling little delight
as a photographer

shoots a wedding
across the lake,

flash after flash
ricocheting from

the water. In those
hills are mountain

lions, fewer now,
receding from the

sprawl.  Tonight
I would not mind

to hear their call,
a scream that could

raise the hairs
of the dead,

a terrible awful
beautiful sound.

Kubler-Ross, I’m going out
of order. Ended up

in the weeds,
under the grape

arbor in the lightest
of rain, pulling clumps

of them out by hand,
sending rocks hurtling

to my dog’s great
amusement.

Although the kitchen
metaphor is apt —

so far under, I’m standing
on the bottom; Metis

a major oceanid, myself,
feeling salty.

But if you think
you can swallow me

with grief, remember
Metis:  I too could start

hammering. No stars
tonight, not even that;

I suppose we have our
answers. I think it was

Hephaestus who split
Zeus’s head open,

saving him from
the headache

of the woman he scorned.
And thus Athena was born,

goddess of wisdom.

And war.

Still going. That brings us back
to the stars and space-filling

models.  It’s one thing to fill
a void, another entirely
to feed a mouth:

your absence is voracious.

Now the neighbor’s voice rises
in an aria, a shaky tenor,

I’m loathe to do work;
at some point, everything

has become tiring. A stick
-brown lizard startles

as the AC shudders
to life, resurrected

from its former
frozen state,

strange, ice forming
in the heat of the day.

I am half hoping
for a similar result,

pushing past all
natural stopping

points, tired
of rambling

towards trite
collects, tired

of resting, tired
of tired — how

obvious can
I get — ennui

is a word I refuse
to use. Next door,

the singing has
descended into

what could charitably
be called a drinking

song, although the day
is still young. Even

the presence
of a wasp fails

to rouse me.
I suppose this

is what naturally
follows anger

and bargaining.
A cricket has

started, also
thrown off by

the clouds;
if unable to

be right, at least
we can be loud.

The hawk falls
and rights itself,

proud it doesn’t
even have to beat

its wings, so high up
it’s currents that bear

its negligible weight;
for all its presence

still brittle-boned.
A pair of quails

flew over, barely
maintaining altitude,

gamey, their flight
was audibly work,

a heavy whirr
bearing towards

the safety of the tree,
plumes bobbing

in old-fashioned
pageantry.  The last

holiday I was out
here, I took the train

back, was struck
by the presence

of the steward,
took a beat to recall

the name of his
overcoat, a duster,

cut from oilcloth,
his old-fashioned cap

incongruous
with the rest

of the passengers,
a covey of down-and-

outers riding coach
all the way from

the Eastern seaboard,
sleeping upright

in the same clothes
for days now as we left

the station and
the desert behind.

An orange floatplane 
cuts the drabness 

of this morning. 
Perhaps when birds

alight and tilt their 
head it’s not gauging

us as a threat but 
wondering why 

we don’t fly.  
The cloud deck

is low and so smell
carries, this acreage

spiced, medicinal. 
I have a vision 

of the sagebrush
under rain, although

today will be dry,
I’ve seen them 

lashed, the land
made sea, this

house in a flood
plain. The finches

sing their circular song.
The floatplane lands.

All this week it will 
be cooling off.

The dogs go out, 
the dogs come in,

one bared her teeth
this morning, guarding

her pain.  With clouds 
so close, sound is too,

a train is now running 
towards Wenatchee.

The finches sing
their circular song,

the floatplane lifts 
and banks hard left,

the morning giving 
way but nothing

changing, it’s been
years since we’ve

seen a good 
storm.