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.