Ruins
Here the king’s men came
and killed the pope’s men
and sacked the church
whose creed required good works
in addition to the merciful grace of God.
Aloof, the ruins stand witness,
crumbling more gracefully than dogma.
This is who we are, this is what we do,
a justifying joy on either hand.
Ad majoram Dei gloriam.
]]>Prairie
Sunset, a vein of cold blood, empties into prairie grass,
reddens dun, dry stems rasping in wind.
Night, brighter than day, gibbous moon in ice-clear sky,
black trees suppliant, grass shining silver and still
Stiff-legged, a coyote lopes across the meadow,
shoulders hunched, head down, listening.
Moles infiltrate through a hole too small to find;
in petty terror we snap their necks with traps.
But in the vision there is a bearskin on your shoulders,
you walk out, stone club in hand, steaming in the cold.
The cottonwood has entangled the moon.
Jim Boring
]]>We came back along the railroad tracks
from the little tobacco shop where I read
comic books while he bought Camels
and talked to the men there.
He held my hand as we walked
until the place where the segmented grasses grew
then I ran ahead to gather stems that we pulled apart
exclaiming at the popping sound they made.
We saw a star fall that night.
It seemed to land in the railroad yard.
I wanted to go and get it but he said no
it was nothing but a cinder now.
Now his light is gone, a cinder,
but I have that dark night so long ago
when I walked with my giant and plucked magic grass
and had answers for the frailties of the universe
Horace Silver at the Piano
Down the lonely afternoon,
the dark and sunny day,
alone in smoky silence,
Horace bends low over his hands.
Whisky circles widen, merge,
glisten wet on the upright lid.
A long ash shudders in anticipation.
Close on the yellow keys,
head cocked, listening,
he is not playing,
he is conjuring,
note by solitary note,
into trembling air.
This is how it is done,
alone in an empty bar,
in dusty light,
in a quiet place.
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You are throwing a baseball
back and forth with your father.
He throws fly balls high up into the sun.
You position yourself and catch them
with a satisfying ‘thuck’
in the web of your mitt.
The mosquitoes aren’t too bad,
the temperature not too hot.
Your glove is linseed-oiled
and broken in, the baseball
scuffed with grass. A summer
stillness has settled right here.
You know there are butterflies,
birds and snakes and clouds.
You know the girl next door
is watching from her window
Your father leans back,
throws one as high as he can.
You and your armada move
gracefully under the ball.
‘Thuck.’
He throws a grounder bouncing
erratically on the uneven grass.
You bend your knees,
anticipate correctly.
‘Thuck.’
The hunched crows
in the trees caw approval.
Now the hard ones come,
straight at you –
fast, right down the pipe,
time to move the mitt
but not to think
and the stinging dignity of pain
in the glove hand.
There is the girl in the window,
there is your father grunting
when he throws the ball.
His arm grows weary
he looks at you and nods.
“Good,” he says.
Buck
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