A big dog — huge dog,
in fact — is barking upstairs,
barking and scrambling
from window to window
as an angel and a devil
walk by outside, oblivious
to the dog, almost a wolf
howling, a demon itself
actually, screaming at the pair
walking by on a
Worcester street in a grey
afternoon, not caring at all,
not noticing in fact, ignoring
that animal, that demigod,
that beast almost retching
in its spasms — and then
it stops and almost as an
afterthought licks itself,
its paws, falls asleep in fact
upstairs from where I sit,
caring only a bit for it,
oblivious myself to it
in fact, in fact or fiction,
like a dream it appears
and I and the angel and devil
vanish until the next time
the apparitions come again
to dog, wolf herald, beast.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

It doesn’t matter
whether all the plants
are up
or not

(although I did see
a small handful, a baby’s
handful if you will,
of grass or something
with a single one
of its leaves coming up
under the bush, the white
hibiscus bush
still dormant, looking
dead
on the side
of the porch).

It doesn’t matter
that I have failed this morning
in yet another of
my attempts to be a better adult

(although I did —
once outside
breathe in the sharp
air of these Berkshire
foothills I felt it in
my old, wintry lungs
as a knife might feel,
and dismissed it smiling as
a last foray of snow and
chill since it’s two days
now till the season
I won’t name).

I chose to ignore
the signs, how my car
started without a chug
or stutter at all

(although I did see
a pickup pass me, then
more of them on their way
to a job or something
like work, every one
of the drivers turning slightly
to be sure they saw me,
to acknowledge slightly
that we had no snowbanks
between us to hide me,
to hide them as they traveled
on their way).

Instead I breathed
steady as the maple tree
next to my sturdy steps
as I went down

(although I was
still careful
of ice on those stairs,
still clutched at their rails
despite my trust in the ones
I held internally to, still
winter-fearful
of the possibility
of falling).

In these times, in
the in-between season
I am as always careful,
guarding against falling

(but somewhat
relieved
that it won’t be
long now before
I can breathe more easily,
walk more swiftly
if I want,
noticing more of
the hill itself
than of hazards
and frozen perils
it still holds).

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T

Walking the false division
between the wild hawk
and the industrial birds
of the world.

The hawk
is natural; so are
the factory birds; they
are all one, subsisting

wherever they can do
all they do; birds
below the high tension wires
leading into town

and birds above the wires,
leading
out of town
to a vast land.

I walk between them,
marveling; they don’t
seem to worry, do they?
Perhaps they do. Perhaps

it’s a mystery
to them as well
and they’re just getting by
on instinct and brute

finesse; their feathers at least
align stupendously well,
even when ruffled by a hand,
even when they are found

on the ground, dead
or dying — even after
they start to fall apart.
I find them on the ground

and am startled to see them
fading, fading away
into soil. But it’s the way
of things, after all;

it all fades into soil
and my memory fights that —
preferring to think
of a circling redtail above

and industrious sparrows below,
grubbing in the polluted dirt
by the power plant; and I,
torn between them, stand there

and stare for a moment
in balance, pausing in
one thought of crisis
to think: where do I fit?

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~`
onward,
T

The primary cause of this unhappiness
is you, yes, you yourself, all the things
about you and your being that no one
talks about. All the things, the
characteristics, the traits. There are likely
those who would disagree but
they are demonstrably wrong, incorrect
about the facts. What do they know
anyway, lying down as they do before
the heat, the fire? They don’t lie down
close enough for burning, they don’t lie down
near enough to feel anything but comfort.
They don’t lie close enough to you to feel
your anger, your discomfort. What you feel
is impotent and theirs feels more potent.
Dammit, you wanted them to feel you.
You wanted them to change their minds and
come with you into the horrible blaze
but they stepped back from it, asked you
with a beckoning hand, maybe a mere finger
in fact, to come away and shelter with them
and feel just the warmth of it.
You, of course, did not.
You had better coals to fan into full flame.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
onward,
T