Long before Francis,St. Isaac of Syria welcomed creaturesgreat and small. My kind of saint,he said that Hell might not last—Godcould end it. What if Isaachad stepped in, held his hand upto my father, said No! Stop! Would Istill be this tree split by lightning,sending out shoots of greenagainst all odds?
1. Shea Stadium In my twenties I used to go to the occasional afternoon game at Shea Stadium. Sometimes the Mets won. Once I ordered a hot dog. The guy next to me, handing my money to the vendor and the hot dog to me in a classic example of the chiasmus, said, “You know,…
Whose rooftops droop like power lines and tiltingstovepipes cough fibrils of smoke from failing firesthat haven’t given heat since Mondale lost. I knowthe faded NASCAR signs, the velvet robes of carcasses on deer hoists in bow season, and window shades handmade from sheets.This place of Cheez Whiz and knockoff pop.This place where cars on blocksarchitect strange piles in…
I’ve admired how they leave littleshells of self clinging to bark or edges of jagged leaf, their swarms pacing flightin packs of years. Imagine, every decade an upheaval. Farmers would knowof their coming yet could not stop it, the dark whirring cloud which upon passingbrought a homelessness that beat to bone. I could hear them…
Sonofagun, what a rambunctious sun!— Flaunting its feather boa of cloud, it’s Done with slumming behind the horizon, It blazons and hastens the birds to what’s Blooming. Our backyard’s a carnival, Carmine and cardinal, ripe apricots Chandeliering on breezes, ambrosial, And in this light I believe everything On this bright and ruinous earth, animal Or vegetable, is a wonder, a blessing Made…
The wind is named, like us, for where it comes from.The road is named, like us, for where it goes. All winds are the one wind.All roads turn into other roads. Sometimes I think the road has ended,but it has turned behind me and gone home. Sometimes I think the wind has ceased,but it has…
Two thousand lightning strikes from last night’s storm.Nothing unusual but record heatand not the least parched godspit of rain.The clamor of photosynthesis cracks. But the young birds birthed in the last month, hatchedinto heat with a bird bath and feeders,shiver-begging, unsleek and disheveled—any adult will do. Droves of siskins, a crowd of red crossbills, dovechilds…
More and more, when I’m walking—and it seemsI’m walking more and more—I turn aroundBecause something has called to me and more And more it’s me as a child back there, walkingwith a friend or a ball or both—and he’s happyand that makes me happy, even when he doesn’t Seem to know it’s me he is…
The hour splits with dust somewhere between north and south.A pine tree sways, disappears.A palm tree sways, appears.I am an exile from the California of my childhood.Grass whistles between my father’s grave and mine. The wind raises dust on my mother’s house, cloaking the yard.I listen for water trapped deep in the aqueduct.Hawks cast shadows…
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