that small dog with soft ears

planless in the lap of the unimagined

unstopped by the mute declarations

of design boundaries from her task of acquaintance

and entire acknowledgement free from departure

through any open gate her mode

is only arrival this creature

whose presence no one need love but herself

so that nothing about her joy

in the other need be conditional

FIFTY

Last Son

low under the peachtree at home

drink book and mountain by

uneven evening horizon onstage and backlit

after twelve days alone playing

musicianlike with time and space

I recover certain rhythms as my own

and sink into the salt pool of myself

that moves with the leaning sea

when word arrives of the early return

of him who is required to try to kill me

as I am required to live

soloists rehearsing changes in tempo apart

abstaining from collaboration

or any flicker of will to intend

that the other be the more sudden and complete

looking everywhere looking for generosity to expend

to play the instrument to play the part

that is mine to play for keeps to play to win

Ghosts In The Parade

Of course they were never told

to follow it but I thought

they'd catch that cadence in the air

or find it in their knees, keep

step with a phantom highstepping

forebear.  Their sister is backed

by ranks of solid women, but

they must guess what men are

meant to life up to in women's

eyes.  All substitutes, I

thought the men they did

know, ersatz males,

dummies set to wear in windows

men's fittings, leaving

dash and dare to invisible

Grandfather, dream Father

cavorting grandly unseen

in the hole in the parade, nothing

for a little or big boy

to set his feet to follow.

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