INDIANA: MID-NOVEMBER, WILD GEESE
In mid-November,
I saw the last flight of wild geese
Winging loosely across the sky.
I crossed Indiana
Late one afternoon, and early dusk,
Town by town:
Kendallville, Nappanee, Walkerton, Westville,
While a Bach partita
Cut through the radio’s distant static
With lines pure and cold
As fire,
And the trucks,
Engines wound up,
Made the long haul along Route 6,
Past the stripped fields
And houses, the stiff boards splintered
By the sleet and sifting winds.
This was Indiana,
Where the wild geese
Beat deep wings over a pale, yellow-gray sky,
Above the crumbling spire
Of an abandoned church, a rusty silo,
With the whole world
Turning around,
Around,
The whole world turning around.
AUBADE
A frying pan in the sink,
Crumbs on the counter,
Newspapers by the door,
A blanket
Thrown over a chair. Someone
Left the porch light on
All night, and the door
Ajar. These are the signs
Of another life…
In the morning’s white light,
I sing you this song:
Let me into your house, your deep-shaded house;
Let me into your house,
And lock the door.
SOMEWHERE BY THE SEA
I am not a gardener.
I lie on a bed
Of dark seagrass, the wind
Sifting across my body,
Lingering over my legs, ribs,
My hollowed chest, through
My wind-tossed hair. At night,
The sea is cool, placid:
The wind has stopped. Yet still
I lie on the dark seagrass,
In the moonless midnight’s
Silence. Slowly,
The earth and I sink together;
We remember floating bright
In the dark waters of the womb.
Somewhere
In the distance, a candle
Smolders like the scent of grief.