Vi Esto (Rev)

Sleep and I weren't speaking that year

So I was not wholly awake when Terpsichore
Wandered across the Midway and possessed
My Trusts and Estates professor, a solid man
Made uncomfortable by his sudden access of grace.
His lecture went on -- he was talking, I think,
About entails and the Statutes of Mortmain --
Though his every move had become a dance.
How that man could shimmy! His will was cast iron
His eyes like angry marbles. His closing words
Carried him down the aisle so that, at the bell,
He flung wide the door and tap danced away.

SHORT OF BREATH

It turns out that the past exists

At a much higher elevation 

Natives pretend they don't see

Visitors gasping for oxygen

This puts me at a disadvantage 

Arguing with my younger self

Who feels I didn't raise him well.

"Me?" I say. "How am  responsible 

For you? Aren't I the result

Of decisions you made or -- too often! --

Didn't make?" 

                         "Go ahead -- blame the kid!

Who's older? Which one of us 

Claims to know what he's doing 

Some of the time? Where were you 

When I needed you?"

                                    "Not existing is where!"

"Sure; that's your excuse for everything!"

IN A HARD TIME

There were few ghosts that year and 

The government's emergency stockpiles 

Had been comprehensively looted or

Been empty all along. Basement labs 

Made ersatz spirits who, poorly trained,

Would wander off script so murderers, 

Looking to be hounded by spectral victims, 

Found themselves talking about clouds 

Or grasshoppers or the taste of butter.

FILLING IN

In the absence of the King

The Royal Cat acted as Regent

Performing her duties

Conscientiously. The crown prince,

However, ignored even

The most tantalizing bits of string 

And was terrified of mice.

FOR AESRED

The new moon

Says "Since you are 

Your father's son 

The next time I make

A road across the water

You may walk on it."

QUARANTINE DAYS

Since the crisis began my house 

Has filled up with muses.

The very old one in the attic

Says my poems would scan better

If I wrote them in Greek.

The golem who occasionally urges me

To write geology lives in the kitchen

(Fortunately, though she never eats,

She cooks quite well). The other muses

Fill couches and chairs or lean on walls 

Times are slow in the inspiration biz; 

They do yoga or watch tv or speak

To the crows who have also moved in.

The crows insist they're playing parts

And discuss motivation endlessly.

Some think they're directors. When I write 

They'll perch near me, shouting

"Slower! Faster! More like Elvis!"

CROWS:

The vows crows make at dawn 

Bind them only until sunset;

Each one thinks that at dusk

He becomes someone different.

It is wrong to say that God 

Tells His secrets to crows

They've  learned most of them 

Simply by paying attention

And knowing when to be silent.

If a crow offers to share with you 

A secret of God, think three times 

And then another three times 

Before you accept.

NOTES FOR A POEM ABOUT LN

At our first meeting you wore
Sea weed. Your black cat,
Hamlet, had long fangs
And tangled fur. He looked
Ferocious but was friendly.
Because there were no forks

In all of Boulder, Colorado,
I learned to use chopsticks.
You once spent two years
In a body cast. The house

Where you grew up
Was turretted and had ghosts.
Membership in your family
Varied widely; brothers
And sisters and cousins
Shuttled in and out. Once
We shared a meal at which
The main course was

Watermelon rind, pickled.

Photo

Oh kind thief passing by you see me

Looking from this old picture on top

Of a pile put by the curb. It may be

The last evidence that such a one as I 

Ever was. Look! Someone wrote my name 

On the back and underlined it in red.

There's a date too -- impossibly long ago;

There was no 1913 -- it's underlined twice.

The handwriting is still clear; the letters 

Are spidery but elegantly made by someone 

Who'd practiced -- made perhaps to practice --

Long hours to develop a hand that bespoke 

Gentleness, civility, curiousity, intelligence 

Look at the curl in my middle initial 

An O -- Oscar? Oswald? Optimus?

If not for my sake then for hers

Who held the pen that carefully took note

Of me, take me home before the rain comes

And washes away her words. Carry me

In your hand or your bag or your back pocket.

Translate her words and me into ones and zeroes

That we may live a little while or forever.

UNQUALIFIED

Suppose the angel of parentheses 

Has taken time off so there's no need 

To qualify discussions of God

As in "we are all in His hands 

(Not that God has hands)" or

"God's grief (not that God grieves)"

So that, made in our image, God

Holds, fears, mocks, grieves, sings,

Shouts, whispers, rejoices, stamps,

Repents and whirls suddenly around 

To see if there's anyone behind Him.

THE WITNESS

In the Haarlemkerk a ghost

Sits asleep, his back against

A tall, fat pillar. Two men 

Argue near him. Each

Sees the ghost; each is sure

The other does not. Though

Their voices grow quiet

Then quieter still, the ghost

Wakes and watches them

Through half-shut eyes.

REASON

Most dogs take their shadows with them

But if Finn did, it returned, struggling free 

From underneath the backyard flagstones.

It's not demonstrative, doesn't demand 

To be fed or have its dark head scratched.

I see it when I'm not looking. It pretends 

To be a black cat stretched out in the sun

Or to be cast by the old wicker rocking chair 

Given away long years ago. My father 

Half-believed that after you die your dog

Is called to testify about you. (Since dogs

Universally loved him he must have found this

A comforting thought.) Finn and I mostly

Got on pretty well but perhaps he still resents 

The time I laughed at him when loud thunder 

Made him squeeze through a hole too small

For him to have fit if fear had not turned his bones 

To jelly. I apologized but if my shadow

Reaches Heaven without me, this may be why.

ASSEMBLED

By threes and by twos shadows

Have congregated here until

By force of their need a structure

Has raised itself around them.

Some figure of authority 

Flickers into being behind a platform

That could be an altar or a bimah

Or perhaps something else entirely

The Shadow of God looks in 

Uncertain He'll be welcome.

DELIVERIES

I have a book of 

Necessary superstitions.

(It never says

Why they're necessary.)

One is that every crow,

Raven, rook and grackle 

Flies to Hell once a week

To deliver a grain of sand.

There's no mention 

Of what's brought back

But I imagine it is

A different grain of sand.

The world may be slowly

Filling up with grains

Of hellish sand;

Much is explained.