Uncivil

The angry woman
backed out of the garage
talking to herself, explaining
why she would
swiveled into the street and aimed
the car at the child who had asked for it

another one took a gun
tired of hearing the same cold voices
she didn’t comb her hair
why would she
knowing she wore fed-up like a battle mask
strode into the meeting and opened fire

I am angry too, or let’s say
distressed, full of sorrow
or nervous, or all of the above
I’d like to talk but even now
they are making their cheeks long red smears
from brow to chin a black stripe
they are putting on bone necklaces
figurative but obvious all the same

the human in their animal forms
is somewhere unreachable
and yet they speak
one opens the red cave of his smile
and a hundred lies wing forth

my hand is a fist that all at once
I remember how to make
thumb coiled loose
leaving bare the serrate knuckles
I put everything into it
I can feel the blow
how his bone would break
his flesh would tear
he would taste blood
and gape, astounded, heaving
like a hooked fish
and it would feel like smooth unburning fire
so good, so good
but there he stands
smiling
and my hand falls open

the pleasure drifts away, the sour delight
I say, out loud
I did not. I could not. Or perhaps I could.
I do not know.

Late sonata

As I stumble through a late sonata
as I follow the notes like trees in a winter landscape
I hear the murmur of those who walked
with me in the woods after our feasts
when we were a little drunk
and in the moonless paths
we talked idly and took in sweet cold air

and we felt the rasp of cloth on cloth and knew
by the snap of twigs or the touch
where each one was
and now and then
the skies cleared over us
and in the light of the ancient galaxy
a face glimmered peacefully
relaxed in the darkness to an inner thought

The gooseberry

I might never have known this fruit
it is not found in the markets
it is not found anywhere
but on the boggy island
in the tall marsh grass blown
against the high sea-facing boulders
where sheep once grazed
ferried out in summer
on open wooden boats
their dingy fleece
as full of life as the sea
tangled with living twigs

I might never have stumbled across it
knees sunk in the peaty earth
where the bushes were low and dense,
all twisted limbs and thorns
and small lobed leathery leaves
folded grayish green
red and crisp and the edges
burnt by august sun

the weeping stems
rooted wherever they touch the ground
but lightly, borne on wiry lace

only by not moving
and looking without knowing
what I would see, did I see them
emerge, shyly at first
then in their eager numbers
the tiny garnet globes
hanging like lanterns
translucent, faintly fogged
as if by inner warmth
on the jade-ribbed skin
the papery tassels below
they tumbled down at a touch

and the taste—musky and tart
luscious and slightly off
like nothing else on earth
I think I could never eat enough

Velocity

Out of the darkness
a depthless calm delight
toes to the floor
eyes open but half dreaming
in the cool room
unhurried
you draw on the waiting garments

the familiar gate open
your place among the porches is clear
the signs patient at the corners

first steps bright and windless
the earths spins invisibly
the merest tug
the slightest whisper
of air across your cheek
the infant sun aslant
leafy, empty paths

and now you see
others taking the same way
or returning, but still
far off, indistinct
approaching at an unknown pace
there and not there

and now trees stand like bars
against the whitening sky
like masts, their green sails spread
and swelling as they rush
behind them shadowy towers
sharpen toward noon
the shadows gather speed

you cannot say
what suddenly seems urgent
on this familiar path
or who it is coming toward you
the gait is familiar
your eyes turn inward
fists clench like hearts
you think, I should speak
soon you will feel the warmth
and if you look up, drink
the brilliant liquid of a living glance

shadows blur and push
you stumble in mid-stride
slow thought summoning nerve
to raise your freighted hand
in time, in time

as the one you meant to greet
with smile or word
whirls on
now close, now strange, now gone

music I

do birds sleep?  if they do
something wakes them in the hour
of out-flowing dark

to open their beaks and break
silence with sudden freshets
of sure song

note on note
that merge and part like blown water
on the sheer pane of night

music II

in front of me at the new music recital
his body an attentive comma
leaning toward
the oncoming waves

I watch him try to follow the mysterious arc
and overlapping pulses
like a rope jumper waiting to enter
the rhythm of a familiar game

but it can’t be done
the long trembling note
thickens and implodes

mice scatter under the skin
the inner ear unfolds vagueness
a storm of unrelenting sound
drowns the gutters
an enormous insect
beats, beats the air
outward and back into the vortex

until the quiet air rushes in where
nothing remains
but our noisy clapping and confusion