Monday, December 15, 2014

Leaves Are Too Easy a Metaphor

Glaciers, too. Blue scouring
into an eventual exposing
of the ages. I won’t even bother
to mention the way the heart beats,
the habitual squinting of the eyes,
or one phone call after another
going straight into voice-mail.
Instead, I will only mention this –
I stopped the other day at the park
and stood in the middle of the gazebo
where you wore white once,
where your mother took snap shots
and your father shook my hand,
where my youngest son showed up
at the last minute and agreed
to join us afterward for Mexican food.


The air today is bruised by wood smoke
and paper mill stink socked-in and left
too long on the line.
          It’s like hope turned
hollow-black green by a cynicism
that yellows into the muddy blood
of ten sweaty boys playing tackle
football in the ankle-deep muck
of a Saturday afternoon.
          Everything’s slipping
into a septic, sprinkling wet that melts
the coat off your back and the skin
from your very last bone.