From the poet’s dictionary
noun \ˈpis-tən\
a sound like a fist, like rain,
like fat drops on hardpan,
like a screen door flapping,
like gasoiline on skin,
like burning sand,
like the smell of coal ash
at ten below zero,
like a stain in the heart
that cannot be removed,
like every slamming, crushing,
fierce and mortal thing
that cannot be undone,
except by love.
See also grief.
How swiftly came the killing season
swept in from hinterlands
just when we had remarked upon
the sameness of it all.
How soon the must-not-be-named
became quotidian.
Weren’t we standing there,
thinking how sensible
not to raise a ruckus,
how preferable to simply
turn our backs to the foul wind?
How did we come to this?
Didn’t we say how better we were?
What comfort are platitudes
now?
Beneath the vultured sky
bully boys tend their weapons,
teeth bared,
lives unsheathed.
All others, they think,
are prey, doomed to
all-hallowed twilight,
but one or two,
unshrinking,
stir and turn.
Vultures circle lower.
Which side?
Do we comprehend reality?
That, finally, all we are
are faults in time, enough to pause
the relentless entropic urge,
but never to stop it?
All humanity has imagined
that it alone was the point,
all those nameless, greaseless corpses,
a poverty of sand and wind.
Who ever remembers them?
We have our own issues,
our own duty,
to create a universe
to be forgotten in its turn.
Red-shouldered hawks are the only ones who call continuously while hunting. Very sporting, I thought.
Daybreak
A pair of hawks
announce the sun
exiles child 