AND WE STOOD TALL

After the distractions of luck, there are always
possibilities on the table. The light doesn’t seem to go,
the days almost Arctic in length. They will never see
that the basement of words is the silent headlight
out on the interstate, and it keeps us linked. I run and run
and it’s grassland again; that is a time
when you put them all together: a haunted dream,
a period of art, my own hand, and my grandfather’s 97th birthday.

The river was long ago cut by the still trees
outside my window, but you can see
it won’t unlock everything. And there are always
possibilities in the storm. I will be better off by myself.

(June 29, 2011)

RUN SILENT, RUN DEEP

I dreamed last night that the pungent spring aroma
of a sidewalk tree was dizzying. Even our steps are other days:
the brig and sugar packets, circular saws and kitchen doors
left open—ideal for the soldier who goes from war to war
and who doesn’t have time to blow the bridge.

Those old voices and memories lie quietly in the axe,
just take from them every strike of the concords.
Splintered window frames hold the cold trail,
and no one knows where only the rain comes in.
I am at peace, though I don’t like seeing my father
pour wine into his glass.

(June 23, 2011)

FINDING A WAY

You dreamed of peace, but you didn’t know
what you needed. What you’re looking for
will fall into your hills and be strong. From here,
I’d be the desert just to be strong. I went quiet
all those years ago—from here and from home, I swim,
for our families have been forgotten completely.

Look over your hope with good seeds—you run
to give it all up, and I don’t even remember
the big Blackfoot River.

(June 5, 2011)

COLD IS THE RIVER

Cold is the river if I swim, and death is now
reaching the bone. Cold is the past,
and it is slowly seeping from our wisdom and our homes.
If nothing is a bad feeling about how elusive they are to me,
then I’d rather sleep.

All the king’s horses fall—all he was to do
was stand in, and now with no way out,
he spontaneously began to hide. I visit his grave;
in the enjoyable times, I can’t help but think
about the same strokes and his salute to me.

Cold is the slowness of homes,
and death is now thinking about me.

(May 31, 2011)