Not the lightning strike, nor the grackle
who fell from the tree, nor me, watching from the porch—
It’s the other me being acted on: the way ice
converts to gas because of heat.
And I’m thinking,
too, of resolution: that the stones in my hand —
their moss and grime — are more
than quartz, feldspar: their knownness
unsatisfying, and then
tossing them behind me on the path.
Pastoral 4: an ecology
At a corner snack bar, the girls
serve salesmen who juggle their gadgets.
Outside, workers sneak their smokes, touch up their lips;
the tourists leave without a bite ($4.50 for tea).
Winter’s sunshine skims the building’s edge.
A pigeon digs for crumbs. The streets
are peopled with silk and feathers,
and the reoccurring impetus of gain.
A train, distant, with a mournful horn
opening the day: overcast but full of birds.
Their industry, and the crickets
and cars whizzing the avenues.
A chair, rooted in grass blades,
my place to depart from dreams. I am
that sparrow on the alley wire. And the sirens —
even at this hour. Even in this calm.
Like It or Not
Sirens gust beyond the rooftops.
The activity of vacancy beyond those rooftops,
the murderous sidewalks not far from home.
Deshawn (in the news) said:
“I would change the story …a quiet part of town
where knives and guns fall asleep while we play.”
Baltimore’s poverty weaves itself across the avenues.
Its achievements cross-stitched, plot line
punctuated by small trees
in small sockets. An ecology.
Whether we like it or not, humans
have become the meaning of the earth.
The concrete actual
The actual gunshot
The fashionable restaurant
The operatic unemployment line
The rat and starling : run free.
Look for the original river
Underground. Still. In its culvert
Pooling the harbor, the reservoir. The pipes
animated and quenching.
A faint and cacophonous entanglement.
where pigeons study the intersection
of Aisquith and North.
The particular building,
the particular intersection:
bus stop, gasoline,
burgers and ribs : evidence :
at rest, a red light
20 drivers : 20 birds
incomplete in our differences, our likenesses
The tarpaper sun-trap
The asphalt sun trap
A need for,
A terrible need, commonplace
The small minds: pigeon-sized
Oily feathers, opalescent in the January sun
Propped by fat pillows,
the mind’s blue eyes survey the rooftops.
Wires crisscross the alleyway.
A squirrel on the wire running,
Furred claws curled around electric weavings.
It moves between shingles and the trees.
Is it running? Or something more squirrel-like—
Not: “I want that walnut,” but something
squirrel-voiced or voiceless.
A mind can’t know what it is.