September steals in on tiptoe—
a shy child, clutches August’s hand,
conceals her face. Her lustre’s up
before sunrise, though—silken breeze,
glossy darkness, full moon. By day
she grows bold, and throws down
sky-fulls of rubies, topaz, gold-leaf.
Pines lean and bristle dark whiskers,
pop vaulting cones that skitter and roll,
tumble somersaults, scramble off.
If you study the leaves
each is a little book,
and the stems of grass
are lines of poetry.
Where is the patience
to hear what the wind
keeps telling us?
The blackbird in the bush
sings a psalm of summer.
Listen.
Four generations assemble for a picture: a baby, his mother, grandfather, great-
grandfather, and what none of them notice is the other picture of four generations on the
wall just behind them. The almost-ninety-year-old man in today’s picture is the baby in
the other picture, being held by his father, while his grandmother and wizened great-
grandfather look on. That kindly old gentleman fought against Lee at Gettysburg, took a
rebel bullet in the shoulder outside Antietam, and was there at the end near Appomattox.
He said he was a fallen catholic, lower case, and smiled.
Said he didn’t intend to be, often pretended not to be,
but was. Said that God for him was like the guy next door,
a retired cop who packed a .38 and a billy club wherever
he went, but was nice as Hell. Insisted that the only Jesus
he ever really knew was his best bud, who lived across
the street, and on the other side lived the Holy Spirit,
a loving little old lady of ninety who made the best
sweet potato pie with toasted meringue he ever tasted.
I find that I like the world more shaggy—
fewer cars, more dust on the streets,
more weeds in the sidewalk cracks.
It’s as if we’d been rushing downhill
in a car without brakes, and it finally
rolled to a stop on a plain.
And we all got out and let out our breath,
gathered our things and went home.
To find that we are our house’s four walls.
And the roof leaks. The windows are loose
in their frames and rattle in the wind.
And we do not resent the outside coming in.
The wind—refreshing. The water—bright.
It’s raining today
and the pond across
the street fills with tears
for so much pain
in the world. Scars
and scandals. Tombs
too early and forgiveness
too late, a funeral
for all those lost
in the forgetfulness
of time or the forgery
of despair, abandoned
except for the prayer
circle our eyes say
for those we buried
and who come back
now, haloed,
grace on a gray day.
Scientists try to resurrect an extinct Australian frog by implanting
cells in a related living species. —National Geographic
She’s rock-sitting in my mind’s eye
beneath a riverine gallery of eucalyptus,
the platypus frog defunct. She swallows her
own glistening eggs. Strange stomach
that serves as womb. Clever the chemical
blocking acid that would digest her young as
so much caviar. She’ll not eat again while
they grow inside. Belly bloated, lungs collapsed,
My visit isn’t going well. Dad stews,
testy, displeased by everything I do,
critiques my pasty face, physique, and views,
complains I never cook the green beans through.
I can’t suppress a funk of irritation,
but bite retorts back, stifled by a noose
of new grief, ancient hurts, and the frustration
of wanting his good will. Yet it’s no use.
August and already
the birch’s rustling
is autumnal, transposed
to a lower key.
All my life I’ve wanted
to be the high soprano,
summer’s voice warbling
in the tree’s crown,
not the mezzo’s darker singing
in the air just below.
Some things can’t be helped.
That snow comes early.
That difficulties arrive
in any weather, time passes.
Bach, knowing this, tuned
his keyboard to make
I am driving in late day sunlight
when a girl in a silver car aims
for me and quick as an email
from hell, sails to my address.
Her stare obliterates me, empties
my driver’s seat. So fervently
does she want me out of her way,
she seems eager to be canceled too.
I begin to hope that death will
oblige the lust she feels for it.
An opulence of loathing
fills me. Full throttle hatred,