All Free

the dead fox trots along the road

shows my bicycle where to go straight

where to turn, the fox looks back

to find me at its heels, keeps

leading me on, more foxes join us

spring from woodland, up from marsh

foxes before & behind, sometimes

their noses touch, their bodies rub side

to side, the bicycle whirs, the foxes

step lightly, we reach the meadow

where I dismount, where they disport

like children, like the deer I saw at dawn

in Tennessee under pink sky in diamond-

sparkled grass, their prance & dance

all in a circle, all of us dead, all free

Alberto Caeiro [aka Fernando Pessoa]:

Poor flowers in the flower beds of manicured gardens.

They look like they’re afraid of the police . . .

But they’re so true that they bloom in the same way

And have the same ancient coloring

They had in their wild state for the first gaze of the first man,

Who was startled by the sight of them and touched them lightly

So that he would see them with his fingers too.

The Last One

still dark ahead of me

a fox stands in the road

senses me, nose high wheels & lopes away

the moon’s chin nibbled

cloud a dolphin birthed from a smoking volcano

three dolphins rummage a marsh creek

two blocks further a second fox

dead in the road

abdomen neatly torn, yellow coils

auburn coat, white-tipped tail

slender legs, black feet stilled

the mouth smiles, every moment this joy

two feet in each hand I could but don’t

flip it into the ditch for gleaning

back home hummingbirds weave the garden

I fail to turn on a light

burn the bacon, overcook the egg

any fox, this fox, could be the last one

Vox Humana

by Thomas Gunn

Being without quality

I appear to you at first

as an unkempt smudge, a blur,

an indefinite haze, merely

pricking the eyes, almost

nothing. Yet you perceive me.

I have been always most close

when you had least resistance,

falling asleep, or in bars;

during the unscheduled hours,

though strangely without substance,

I hang, there and ominous.

Aha, sooner or later

you will have to name me, and,

as you name, I shall focus,

I shall become more precise.

O Master (for you command

in naming me, you prefer)!

I was, for Alexander,

the certain victory; I

was hemlock for Socrates;

and, in the dry night, Brutus

waking before Philippi

stopped me, crying out ‘Caesar!’

Or if you call me the blur

that in fact I am, you shall

yourself remain blurred, hanging

like smoke indoors. For you bring,

to what you define now, all

there is, ever, of future.

Is It Not Midsummer?

90s most of the day, 80s all night

meteorologists make no mention of

cooling thunderstorms midafternoon

this here up-&-eve country where

if you don’t work outside in early morning

you’re not likely to work outside at all

6 am on the bicycle, lights fore & aft

raccoon posse zigzags across the road

one large, three small marauders

the same, I’ll guess, who nibble my compost

overnight & why shouldn’t they? 

redbirds swoop from tree to hedge to lawn

a bat shaves my eyebrows, foxes

a pair, necks & tails long, noses

reconnoitering, middle of road converse

stare piercingly toward me, wheel & lope

for swampy brush, they disappear

faster than I can see, overhead

woodstorks, like giant flying commas

soar south & west, water birds

aim away from the rising sun

snug in trees song birds trill

woken, the great blue heron rasps

mist the height of a wolf, top of a pole

a black vulture, out too early

something disturbed it, movie folk

as many as 25 vehicles rutting

two fields for most of the summer, go

away, intruders, blood red burn

the sun rises, looms navel orange

three red trucks in one driveway

smell of cut grass, mud, morning

Iceland

by Eugenio Montejo

Iceland, so this is how you keep your distance,

your icy mists, your fjords

where people speak in dialects of ice.

Iceland so close to the Pole,

purified by nights

of suckling whales.

Iceland sketched in my journal,

illusion and sorrow (or vice versa).

Could anything be more dire than this desire

to take myself to Iceland and chant your sagas,

tramp your salty fogs?

My country’s sun

burns so,

it makes me dream of your winters.

This equatorial riddle

of searching for snow

that holds heat in its heart

& doesn’t wither the leaves of cedars.

I’ll never make it to Iceland. It’s very far.

So many degrees below zero.

I’ll fold the map to feel closer.

I’ll glaze your fjords with forests of palm.

— translated by Carol Peters

Heed

this morning the cat

is crazed, can’t stay in,

can’t stay out, sprawls the

countertop, straddles

the sink, begs for running

water, have we an

intruder? or comes a tornado?

thunder growls, intermittent

rain, everything outside

is wet, none of the wet

clothes have dried

from yesterday’s boat ride

whatever’s amiss the cat

knows it & bids me heed

Imagine That

by Marie Ponsot

May morning, and the child

in ironed overalls squats

to report to herself

on the poise of a silk-smooth

stone. She hefts it

in her right hand, shifts it

to her left, tries a quick lick,

and sets it down, almost exactly

where she found it

                              in the yard in the dirt

                              in the grass in front of

the clump of fat-bud peonies.

She does not know the name, peony.

She does not know the name, stone.

She knows the stone by its gravity

its ironic taste its nameless

coloring

                             And after seventy years

will visit, again, the ready way

the stone settled back into place,

unevenly, not as it had been

not exactly            but satisfactorily,

to lodge untended in her memory

among other long-lived perennials.

Dressing Tova for Camp

Clothes may not be black, pink,

or purple, may not sport frills,

bows, Disney, mermaids, or unicorns.

Also, no dresses. Pretty she scorns

in favor of attitude

fashioned by humor, mood,

& Mother’s warnings — be aware

of what might sadden or scare

another child. The baseball hat

that screams CRY fails that.

For Shabbat she’s chosen

a white tunic, a short white

jacket, denim shorts — also white.

To swim, a bikini, stars

& stripes. On her feet far

too stylish sandals with straps.

Not sensible, sensible’s a bum rap.

Waking in March

by Philip Levine

Last night, again, I dreamed

my children were back at home,

small boys huddled in their separate beds,

and I went from one to the other

listening to their breathing — regular,

almost soundless — until a white light

hardened against the bedroom wall,

the light of Los Angeles burning south

of here, going at last as we

knew it would. I didn’t waken.

Instead the four of us went out

into the front yard and the false dawn

that rose over the Tehachipis and stood

in our bare feet on the wet lawn

as the world shook like a burning house.

Each human voice reached us

without sound, a warm breath on the cheek,

a dry kiss.

                     Why am I so quiet?

This is the end of the world, I am dreaming

the end of the world, and I go from bed

to bed bowing to the small dark heads

of my sons in a bedroom that turns

slowly from darkness to fire. Everyone

else is gone, their last words

reach us in the language of light.

The great eucalyptus trees along the road

swim in the new wind pouring

like water over the mountains. Each day

this is what we waken to, a water

like wind bearing the voices of the world,

the generations of the unborn chanting

in the language of fire. This will be

tomorrow. Why am I so quiet?