Like Gorky, I sometimes follow my doubts
outside to the yard and question the sky,
longing to have the fight settled, thinking
This tiny ruin in my eye, small
flaw in the fabric, little speck
of blood in the egg, deep chip
was going well. A perfect, rosy sow,
a finch, an elephant. Then a giraffe
at the last minute, spring up like Wow,
This is what our wandering life has come to.
Our dead stay where they're put, in different states.
We buried her beside the Texan, who
Sometimes I lose you. Say you are a puppy
and I've left the door ajar. Or I'm due someplace
and can't remember where. In my sticky-uppy
When the concertmaster gestures to the oboe,
silence flutters through the massive hall.
Because we both heard separately the bark
of the hungry storm last night- he there, me here-
the wind tossing itself through the dark
For a hundred miles
the fields have worn
beards of ugly stubble
and night is falling
Driving this morning, a poem came to me,
so simple, so pure Keats himself could not conceive it,
and then, turning onto Lombard Street, I lost it.