A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles
cameras at the ready.
You find a small stone.
On its surface, a
crimp and cockle depiction
of wind and waves
has rucked up an impression
of an eagle in flight.
"Just water-wear."
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of divinely inspired crinkles.
His dog stops often to sniff
the scuffed turf
of this recreation park.
It smells last Sunday's soccer game,
by tracing the sweaty play, the spots
where the spinning ball
slid crazily,
through layers of musky mud.
The man of course smells little of this,
he only smells the ethereal
trace of her memory,
her arms clasped around him,
when on this very field
they had to part.
Yet even here
in this rucked and rutted earth
like a dog he follows a certain scent
one that the dog never will.
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles.
Cameras fully loaded.
You find a small stone,
on it, a crimp and cockle
of wind and waves
has rucked an impression
of an eagle in flight.
“It's only ripple art, not even
a good depiction,
just water-wear. “
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of prophetically placed crinkles.
On its surface a crimp and cockle
of a purling tide have rucked an impression
on a stone.
We are here to find Eagles
but the sky is too low and the wind too high.
You show the image on the stone
as if this were the very thing
we had been looking for.
I look at it squint eyed:
could be a crow
You throw the stone into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand
won’t speak again
until I admit to the endless possibilities
of crinkles, tides and wind
to produce
magical eagles.
The dog stops often to sniff
the scuffed turf,
it smells last Sundays game
tracing the play, the points
where the intoxicated ball
slid crazily,
through layers of musky exertion.
The man of course smells none of this,
he only smells a ghostly perfume
now buried in another place.
Yet even here
deep in this rucked and rutted earth
like a dog on a remembered scent
he follows her.
A crinkled shore on the Upper Peninsula.
We are hunting Golden Eagles.
You find a small stone.
On the surface, a crimp and cockle
of wind and waves
has rucked an impression
of an eagle in flight.
“It's only ripple art, not even
a good depiction,
just water-wear. “
I say.
You throw it back into Lake Huron,
won’t hold my hand,
won’t even look at me,
until I admit the possibility
of divine crinkles.
caught short singly
one rainwrote morning in hyannisport
when snows a science
over iceroof and snowfloor beachsand and
eastersundaysun a milton shadow opportunity
opposite sleeping young and russetrocket cool
in ferriswheels of rococo chestnut hair
shortblack pleatedcotton skirt carouseling round creamcoffee legs
swinburne stretched in desert stockings slightly spread
hands lapclasped
nose artdeccoerect eyes razed marble monuments lips
just lips
chinachin touching down on a fire
work whitesilk blouse no ruffles
a plainsong of anti flesh skinquisitive
toes still and borne just like ejaculated popcorn
jacket buttered lemonleather
shoes pumps patented starbust bright
bag royal with umberous umbrella tossed
off about her
cottoncandybreasts roughly rippled by the rucked road to
go tunneling
not traveling
descartes launched in
parting
only a starspangledbanner thought
old Lucy Gray reserected
equated
transcribed for solitude
for nine hours bad road
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