who had read that night,
and any fool able to tell a bobcat from a cougar,
even a drunk writer like me,
years later, at the smorgasbord, in California.
Hell. And then the cougar smooth-loped out of the brush right in front of me—God, how big and beautiful he was— jumped onto a rock and turned his head to look at me. To look at me! I looked back, forgetting to shoot. Then he jumped again, ran clear out of my life.
THE CURRENT
These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pockets of my brain.
But there's one that comes— heavy, scarred, silent like the rest, that simply holds against the current,
closing its dark mouth against the current, closing and opening as it holds to the current.
HUNTER
Half asleep on top of this bleak landscape,
surrounded by chukkers,
I crouch behind a pile of rocks and dream
I embrace my babysitter.
A few inches from my face
her cool and youthful eyes stare at me from two remaining
wildflowers. There's a question in those eyes
I can't answer. Who is to judge these things?
But deep under my winter underwear,
my blood stirs.
Suddenly, her hand rises in alarm—
the geese are streaming off their river island,
rising, rising up this gorge.
I move the safety. The body gathers, leans to its work.
Believe in the fingers.
Believe in the nerves.
Believe in THIS.
TRYING TO SLEEP LATE ON A SATURDAY MORNING IN NOVEMBER
In the living room Walter Cronkite
prepares us for the moon shot.
We are approaching
the third and final phase, this
is the last exercise.
I settle down,
far down into the covers.
My son is wearing his space helmet.
I see him move down the long airless corridor,
his iron boots dragging.
My own feet grow cold.
I dream of yellow-jackets and near
frostbite, two hazards
facing the whitefish fishermen
on Satus Creek.
But there is something moving
there in the frozen reeds,
something on its side that is
slowly filling with water.
I turn onto my back.
All of me is lifting at once,
as if it were impossible to drown.
LOUISE
In the trailer next to this one
a woman picks at a child named Louise.
Didn't I tell you, Dummy, to keep this door closed?
Jesus, it's winter!
You want to pay the electric bill?
Wipe your feet, for Christ's sake!
Louise, what am I going to do with you?
Oh, what am I going to do with you, Louise?
the woman sings from morning to night.
Today the woman and child are out
hanging up wash.
Say hello to this man, the woman says
to Louise. Louise!
This is Louise, the woman says
and gives Louise a jerk.
Cat's got her tongue, the woman says.
But Louise has pins in her mouth,
wet clothes in her arms. She pulls
the line down, holds the line
with her neck
as she slings the shirt
over the line and lets go—
the shirt filling out, flapping
over her head. She ducks
and jumps back—jumps back
from this near human shape.
POEM FOR KARL WALLENDA, AERIALIST SUPREME
When you were little, wind tailed you
all over Magdeburg. In Vienna wind looked for you
in first one courtyard then another.
It overturned fountains, it made your hair stand on end.
In Prague wind accompanied serious young couples
just starting families. But you made their breaths catch,
those ladies in long white dresses,
the men with their moustaches and high collars.
It waited in the cuffs of your sleeves
when you bowed to the Emperor Haile Selassie.
It was there when you shook hands
with the democratic King of the Belgians.
Wind rolled mangoes and garbage sacks down the streets of
Nairobi. You saw wind pursuing zebras across the Serengeti Plain. Wind joined you as you stepped off the eaves of suburban houses in Sarasota, Florida. It made little noises in trees at every crossroads town, every circus stop. You remarked on it all your life, how it could come from nowhere, how it stirred the puffy faces of the hydrangeas below hotel room balconies while you drew on your big Havana and
and any fool able to tell a bobcat from a cougar,
even a drunk writer like me,
years later, at the smorgasbord, in California.
Hell. And then the cougar smooth-loped out of the brush right in front of me—God, how big and beautiful he was— jumped onto a rock and turned his head to look at me. To look at me! I looked back, forgetting to shoot. Then he jumped again, ran clear out of my life.
THE CURRENT
These fish have no eyes
these silver fish that come to me in dreams,
scattering their roe and milt
in the pockets of my brain.
But there's one that comes— heavy, scarred, silent like the rest, that simply holds against the current,
closing its dark mouth against the current, closing and opening as it holds to the current.
HUNTER
Half asleep on top of this bleak landscape,
surrounded by chukkers,
I crouch behind a pile of rocks and dream
I embrace my babysitter.
A few inches from my face
her cool and youthful eyes stare at me from two remaining
wildflowers. There's a question in those eyes
I can't answer. Who is to judge these things?
But deep under my winter underwear,
my blood stirs.
Suddenly, her hand rises in alarm—
the geese are streaming off their river island,
rising, rising up this gorge.
I move the safety. The body gathers, leans to its work.
Believe in the fingers.
Believe in the nerves.
Believe in THIS.
TRYING TO SLEEP LATE ON A SATURDAY MORNING IN NOVEMBER
In the living room Walter Cronkite
prepares us for the moon shot.
We are approaching
the third and final phase, this
is the last exercise.
I settle down,
far down into the covers.
My son is wearing his space helmet.
I see him move down the long airless corridor,
his iron boots dragging.
My own feet grow cold.
I dream of yellow-jackets and near
frostbite, two hazards
facing the whitefish fishermen
on Satus Creek.
But there is something moving
there in the frozen reeds,
something on its side that is
slowly filling with water.
I turn onto my back.
All of me is lifting at once,
as if it were impossible to drown.
LOUISE
In the trailer next to this one
a woman picks at a child named Louise.
Didn't I tell you, Dummy, to keep this door closed?
Jesus, it's winter!
You want to pay the electric bill?
Wipe your feet, for Christ's sake!
Louise, what am I going to do with you?
Oh, what am I going to do with you, Louise?
the woman sings from morning to night.
Today the woman and child are out
hanging up wash.
Say hello to this man, the woman says
to Louise. Louise!
This is Louise, the woman says
and gives Louise a jerk.
Cat's got her tongue, the woman says.
But Louise has pins in her mouth,
wet clothes in her arms. She pulls
the line down, holds the line
with her neck
as she slings the shirt
over the line and lets go—
the shirt filling out, flapping
over her head. She ducks
and jumps back—jumps back
from this near human shape.
POEM FOR KARL WALLENDA, AERIALIST SUPREME
When you were little, wind tailed you
all over Magdeburg. In Vienna wind looked for you
in first one courtyard then another.
It overturned fountains, it made your hair stand on end.
In Prague wind accompanied serious young couples
just starting families. But you made their breaths catch,
those ladies in long white dresses,
the men with their moustaches and high collars.
It waited in the cuffs of your sleeves
when you bowed to the Emperor Haile Selassie.
It was there when you shook hands
with the democratic King of the Belgians.
Wind rolled mangoes and garbage sacks down the streets of
Nairobi. You saw wind pursuing zebras across the Serengeti Plain. Wind joined you as you stepped off the eaves of suburban houses in Sarasota, Florida. It made little noises in trees at every crossroads town, every circus stop. You remarked on it all your life, how it could come from nowhere, how it stirred the puffy faces of the hydrangeas below hotel room balconies while you drew on your big Havana and
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