of green daffodils, trees,
their darkened daylight dress.
His smile does not fill these skies;
our lives, a sigh: a wait
for what we would be.
And so this is where we work—
a shop for shavings or bits of stone;
an apron, all the little Geppettos,
Gaudier-Brzeskas; each, every day,
to his scappy corner, finding
drama, inventing epics.
Days need filling—stars invent the sky.
At least that’s what we tell ourselves:
rose petals covering the sidewalk,
a heart taking its sleeve.
And what else but resurrection
could give this? We speak words
that own us, dance to the we they make.
We are like torn flags high above
this heading, our do-wops, the tongues
of angels and flying fish.
Come into the shop sometime.
We will find the beer.
The dog howls when Linda plays piano
gets nocturnal—lunar white depressions,
vast, dim seas. He feels the ocean in dark leaves,
laments for us all—a world that eats its own.
It’s his burden, to bring what his masters can’t:
life, a gut-bag on the forest floor, downy drifts
rocking tall limbs, reasons for distress.
I wouldn’t want to live there, greased,
though perhaps we do so when we enter the world
of basement laundry. Or maybe we go through
our rounds to keep us from its cold fissures.
My daughter has a burden for the small
of this world, for women. That is why we, parents,
re-spell “grass”: ferning colors, building.
There is no security on this frozen dirt, except
in the fact that God brings the world to bear
so heavily upon us—that we, reduced to who
we are, might leave a print, worthy
of the dust and forms we find.
Our other dog died, which was harder for him
though I suppose it’s always like that—
the going one making all the noise.
I’m sure I’ll be hac-hec-hooing right along
with Muriel Spark, everyone else
when it’s my turn to brave
that cold amusement park.
I wish my ride could be like a saint’s,
but it hasn’t been. And if there’s anybody
doing that down at the college, you
wouldn’t know it—which makes sense,
given the noisiness of my coaster car—
quieting the world’s not an option.
No, I’m afraid most of us are like the many,
bumbling our way through, too much
of the holy water finding floor
as we enter or leave the church.
We are the great (spiritually) unwashed,
the mass who, we hope, will get into heaven
at a group-rate, kind of like Walmart shoppers.
“Yes, yes,” Peter a little bored, waving us
through with our small busy flags.
They’ll be a place for us at the bar, too,
in heaven, though many will leave
(not judging of course as we enter).
It will just be so many, too many new
dart games, too much loud talk for them,
too much carrying on—though we might
see Francis somewhere, quiet, grinning.
Everyone except Dodger fans.
(I have no idea why that should be.)
We’d all get quiet for the sunset though,
the huge heavenly ship going down.
Then it will be new stars and night birds,
tennis over to the right, under leaves, lights.
The whole place will be like a cathedral
with posters on the trees.
I still look for him beneath the table
laying there, spent, when I tuck:
the little general who passed
like bright sails among us.
Dogs are little guardians, aren’t they,
signposts, doing their job,
telling you about selflessness again?
Of course they are only dogs,
but that’s kind of the point, isn’t it?
(“Here, friend, the answer’s by the biscuit.”)
We can use all the help we can get.
That’s
