you climb into the car, suitcase in trunk
quart of milk beside you, it’s June
the milk will spoil, who cares
you back out the drive
the movers pause
eye you, continue down the walk — sofa
dresser, beds — inside, your mother
doesn’t know you’re going, won’t know
until the van is packed
too late
right on Laurel, left on Van Dien
right on Grove, after three turns
where to go? the smell of your car
unfamiliar roads
it’s a start
I wait for the river to freeze solid
above the dam, that’s when, I’m told
the otters come to slalom over
they say the workers building
the glassed-in porch barely worked
for watching, just as I do
sleek slithery bodies in oiled pelts
racing toward & bellying down
scrambling out to do it again
half the day I stand at the window
scan the snow-covered plain
in summer the river flows green
under the snow the ice is green
current sucks floating islands
under the shore-to-shore ice
run, rise, freeze — open water
above the dam is small & smaller
any day now, I’ll see them
above the dam open water shows
below a million-bubble rim where
ice holds
what flows
tumbles to tumult below, ice
sculpts smooth stone, frosts
evergreens
hot coffee
drills a brown hole in white water
a lamp’s glow carves a bowl
as sun does noon to two
in Iceland’s
dim December snow falls
unseen, gray ghost patterns
sea-bashed rocks
where
are the gulls that blacken
June’s solstice? in January’s
dark days
where do eiders go?
I take place
decide each day to walk or not to walk
dakota is a far sound on another tongue
unci-la, hoksica-la*
a block in my throat
all streams hard frozen
your mother doesn’t know you’re going
every limb of every missing child
rock ridge, glacier-dragged boulder
winter light between bare trees
somebody who turned into nobody
rescuers say don’t leave the trail
no second spring
place instead of time
every object owned represents a fear
one’s my limit, small as I am
stone roads with grooves to guide cart wheels
river otters, tree roots
a space for error
whatever wants to kill me
somebody, something can always be blamed
ignorant of country, of age, of weakness
where flood took the path
green bergs sucked under
Wilde loved the word vermilion
why not become all flame?
* un-chi-la, dear old woman; hok-shi-cha-la, dear child
hundreds throng the road
countless more pebble the ditch
pullulate in corn stubble
fracas on fresh snow
when the car appears, & slows
thousands of starlings rise
like a fistful of pepper
flung at the pale gray sky
the wave crests, spindles
billows to giant wings
arc & swerve, beat & hover
car passes, maelstrom settles
smuts across the meadow
beaks rake the snow for feed
early morning, lingering fog
an eagle rises above the lake
limp vole entaloned
poet on the losing side
you’re taken prisoner, permitted to live
because you sing
men are too dangerous
to be kept for slaves, so they’re killed
lucky poet, you’re not a man
sons of someones
lead you down to a hollow ship
row you to your next master
where you’ll sing
slave, like so many weeping brides
remember, poet, cherish rage
high on poles ragged hawks
patrol winter meadows
hungry vermin die
