Deep Breaths

The roars of trucks, cars, and things
That sound like wind—the wind roar
That sounds like rain—the rain drums

That sound like war. Sound, sound, sound,
Like, like, like, rush, rush, more, more—
You can learn to read these sounds,

As I have on thin dirt roads
Well up on crags in the woods—
Which roar’s a dirt bike, a gust,

An old truck, a storm. I want
Them all to be storms but know
That if they were, I’d know fear,

When now all I know are hints
Of dread, signs, time to look up,
Pricked ears. Time to sit back down.

I love the world when it’s caught
In a mesh of its own light,
All wild-eyed, but makes no sound.

Crown Vetch

To swim a pond with no one
Else in view, no house, no road
In sight, just blooms of crown vetch

In crowds that keep the rest out,
As all weeds try to do, us
Beast-weeds too, who brought vetch here—

There’s a thought that has not showed
Its face in my mind for years.
Once, I swam in such a pond,

Far from these slopes of burnt pines
And cheat grass, weed of the west,
Brought out as was brought crown vetch.

Those were what we called “north woods,”
Thick and wet, young growth sprung up
Once the ax left, full of stumps,

Ticks, flies, “all jaws,” “no-see-ums,”
Small snakes, fine skunks, all the rest.
Land of deer with the wolves gone.

I did not think that I was
A beast, a weed, or a ghost
Back then. I thought I could swim.

Here We Are So Far, So Far

It is a great gift to know
Night is as vast as it is
And the stars so far from us.

It’s balm. Do our worst, we’re small
And young, and so is our world.
God and the gods and the ghosts

May play us false, but they are
All ours, and as young and small
If not, in fact, much more so.

But the night sky is not small.
Just one palm of stars in clouds
Pools more depth than life’s own death.