The Ice Storm

During the ice storm the trees bent
under their new coats, clear and crackling
like chandeliers in an old mansion.
The breath of every squirrel sculpted

its own cloud. The squirrel chased its cloud
with desire, as if to be inside it
would grant warmth. But it wouldn’t,
so back to the nest they would go.

During the ice storm you could hear
the crashing of life all around, the juniper
splitting down its evil center, flaunting
the orange insides of what once was

a heart. There were dreams of summer
in every gasping window, but those dreams
were a long way off. Some schmuck
tried to take out his car, make it up the hill.

Did not work. A gaggle of coyotes
yipped in the night, every one of the pack
a genuine maniac, while the delicious moon
batted its half-circle eye in the dark.

It looked down at all of us shivering alone.
What this means is that no matter
how hard we try, we can’t stop
this earth from doing what it wants.

 

Nostalgia as a Reflection of One’s Future Self

1.
Deep below the bench the shore meets what crashes into it, and a ring of flowers glows like a fire. When I was a boy I could only imagine a foreign beauty like this, as I threw eggs against the neighbor’s house.

2.
Far beyond the bay whales circle and rise up like a hand reaching for the monkey bars, but I’ve never seen one. We all fall for a good lie, the tide higher than ever, banging a wood plank from who knows where into your ankle. Parrots make their racket in a tree to the left. To the right, the past and future of all governments.

3.
Sometimes, the mud is too deep, I go into it to my knees, but I cannot stop. What I’m trying to say is that as I sit here on this bench above the sea, whatever came before is the same as whatever came after.