Labberneck

Opaque

Once he longed for the ____ he became more
opaque as though light in its ____ points could
not penetrate his substance–what substance there
was since the word had ceased to have any meaning

for him. He tried to convince himself he wasn’t
disappearing: “I’m as much as there ever was.”
He partitioned his being into here and there
–as if he were grocery shopping at a store

with which he was forever unfamiliar, the aisles
turning this way and that way until he couldn’t
find canned peaches, bottled apple juice, clams,
chips–Where had he gone? What would others say

now that even he had lost his voice with its old
timbre? Its old tempo? Once he longed
for the unutterable, he began.

Party

After my Irish grandma yelled,
“The Matthias’ boys ain’t wanted
at the party,” there was no one

left to care for her except my
mother–my Quaker grandpa had
already got himself a new

gal, and my other uncles, aunts,
and cousins had things to attend
not including grandma’s pending

death–so Mom worked at Selective
Service, and while my dad harassed
her to marry him she tended

her mother–now Dad tends my mom
as she falls deeper into death,
the place all are invited guests.

Phlox

Those purple phlox–that’s what they are
–underneath the great green blindness
of the empty billboards–run mile

after mile along the shoulders
and into the fields, to the trees,
into the washed-out pits and streams

that drain the highway as I lumber
along in the rain–my big right
foot hunkering down on the gas

–I glide farther with one push
on the pedal than any ox
drawn wagon–mile after mile nestle

beneath my wheels, and white lines drain
the blacktop while signs strain my eyes
–the purple roadside, the purple

blinding me and my shoulders melting
into my seat until my dreams
putt away from me, and Eighty

Four signs point us to ‘turn here.’

Poor Replica

O, you, poor replica of a bleeding
heart, your flowers and your leaves appear

then disappear through no one’s fault I can
account for–not mine, at least, since I have

never given you soil nor water
but what buries you or flows down at its

own speed, season by season–so what do
your shortcomings and leavings show, a tall

oak’s might, a thin maple’s–the large lack I
have for you, you who have grown not full

–who has spread your failure all over me?

Rambler

Why did we buy
these ramblers–:we
don’t crush their blooms

in books, scoop their
thorns into boxes,
save their switches

for some Lenten
rule–:painful to
train, we grab them

by mistake, prick
our fingers, wrists,
knuckles so our

blood empties in
to their blossoms
where bees suck our

redness away
when the sun burns
scarlet to black.

Scarecrow

Friends are following me around because
I forget to write to them, forget their

birthdays, ages, their saints and children’s names
–they’re checking my references, thumbing
through my Rolodex, interrupting my

CV, my dreams. My friends think my home is
cozy until their extended families

all drop in,– then the hearth’s too small to hold
hands, the ceiling’s too low to their helmets,
and the table’s too wiggly for wrestling.

“How can we give thanks?” they cry. Their luggage
fills my attic, and their trucks fill my yard.

They’re sleeping on my bidets and screwing
on the porch and leaking out my windows
and swimming in my sweat:– one friend takes pot

shots from the roof that dimples from his piss.
When I’m at work, they give my dog a trip

to the pound, my wife a ticket to She
boygan. “Give me back,” I say, “Give me back.”
“Where were you when we needed you?” they scream

and pole me upright in their Victory
Garden, let the straw spill from my nostrils.

They go, “How’s it going?” and, before I
can turn, they turn their backs like all other
backs strolling down my street. I shout, “How do

you do.” But they set their heads against me.

Seagulls’ Wings

After the archdeacon had laid it on,
he left for another loaf, pickles, beet
soup frothed nicely at his maid’s. While outside

he found cosmos rooted in the planking
around the kitchen door. ‘How long,’ he wondered,
‘had they been at table, ’cause cosmos grow

quickly in days, not minutes.’ The slow hike
to his maid’s hearth and back took just long
enough for iris to sprout alongside

the paving, and apple trees, some heather,
and honeysuckle, too, had formed and bloomed.
When he got back, the bishop and his guests

had risen. The wind stirring the open
window tossed flakes from the tablecloth, crusts
to the floor, glasses stained or shattered, chairs

overturned. He cleaned the remnants, and all
the crumbs, the seeds, the bones filled seven bags.
He heard leaves rustle, cicadas, too, saw

the ordinary sky, blue,–’What to do?
What to do?’–seagulls fluttered over his
head:–an angel with her mouth to the horn.

Surfing with Philip

Me and Larkin at the beach:– him looking
for Famous Cricketers, me, a gawker

after bikinis and my neighbor’s black
hearse:– Tommy Collier and Alan could not

surf, but they did have girlfriends with sisters
my age:– though I was too shy and would just

stare which drove Larkin crazy:– “Still going
on!” he had screamed and startled several

pelicans into landing farther out
the pier:– with Larkin gesturing against

the shore, I paddled out to catch some curls.

Valediction

Protect me from my good intents, my Dear,
so that I might leave our world’s pieces pleased

I didn’t try to bind jagged bits to bits,
or add the parts and find the sums unfit.

Detect for me the shortest path, old Son,
so I will arrive with a steady rod,

an unshaken cap, and a creased trouser
seam because those who expect me, defer

to those with ultra looks and hardy step.
Respect me where I end up, my Baby,

so I can raise my chin above the worms.
Inspect my cuffs, straighten my tie, and pep

the crowd, dear Chum, so I go down grandly
this way, burying my hole among Norms.

Wildflowers

Each year our daily has a feature
on wildflowers that reminds us
not to cast these seeds on the wind
but prepare the ground as we would

for any annual not now
classified as “wild.” How are we
to differentiate wild from tame,
at least as flowers go? When does

their sturdiness make them weeds
to most–while delicates need our
sturdy ways to keep them fresh?
Shouldn’t these flowery weeds be

loved as much as heather or holly?
Or have we gone mad with flower
tending and tend to love those
most who need protection or love?