Hold On Tight
This ride may last a few minutes or it may
endure, like nails rusting slowly in a splintery
board, for the rest of your life. Professors
of motion have climbed down iron ladders
and are working it out. You can hear them
moaning all night in closets and dens. Whiskey
glasses clink as mountains of ice pile up,
steaming in amber flow. Meanwhile your little
car rattles high on the track and your frayed
nerves, those cables of glass and wind, bend
tighter and tighter as your stomach fills
with birds. Forget mercy. Only machines live
here, and they won’t negotiate a different ending
now. No wonder you have eaten shadows
from that plate of rice. The summit slowly rises
into the deep well of your sight. Could anyone
be surprised when sharks grow pale in the wan
depths of your eyes? Screams linger in fiery ash and rain.
The Half-Brother’s Song
I’ve been a black bear stung with hunger, stumbling
through autumn-ravaged yards. My shadow hangs
between slender pines, scent of water flooding my nose.
Here comes the moon, my half-brother, drunk again
on light and stars. His laughter shakes the night, breaking
yellowing leaves as they cling to maple and oak. See how
they drift in his cold and pallid gleam. I’ve been a crow
staring out over a browning field, my yellow eyes bright
as little moons. I’ve been a fish with silver scales
and a frog, pinging passionate songs through rushes
and mud. When winter returns I will sleep through the slow
pulsing of my turgid blood, half believing the miracles I dream.
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