The Middlewesterner

“How much freight
can one word haul?

How long to wait
at the railyard?”

“Either
this word,”

he said,
“or none

at all.”

“The art of
artlessness -

nothing like
a feather,

found.”

“The poet's wisdom is
not so much understanding

how they go together as
how they come apart.”

“You look
within,”

he said.
“I look

around.
That's what

poets
do.

You rob
the bank.

I drive
the get-

away.”

“Words
in an empty

forest.
How

like the wind.”

“If you cannot
be the lightning,”

the poet said,

“be the lightning
rod.”

“You do it,”
he said. “Write

one every
god-damn day

for years, then
tell me what's

good, what's not.”

Sadness
rhymes with
nothing.

Tie your
shoes, head
to work.

Let go
again
every-

thing you'd
hold to.
Darkness

will take
the light.
What shim-

mers is
only
dying

ember.
I want
nothing;

nothing's
what I've
got - it's

enough,
enough,
too much.

Trees are.
They do not

ask special
favor.

They find
their way to

light, or not.
They file

no complaint
except when,

being split,
sometimes they

cry out
meekly.

What stirs
in darkness,
dust?

What moves
the silence?

Why must
we wait
in stillness

for

a mouse
to nibble
the apple

core?

Why must
we wonder,
again,

what comes
of nothing?

A long day
traveling, and

I am still
where I am.

Grey sky,
a dull green

hillside.
The brilliance

of weeds.

Smear of sky,
yet still

the heat.

Low sky,
scape of

iron clouds,
a distance

that will not
close.

Hang-down sky,
push of wind -

the need for going.

Morning, as if
clouds lift the sky

and light is fire.

Rivers,
like dreams.

More like dreams
every day.

The moon comes up.
The sun goes down.

The day cools
into evening. And

crickets are telling us
things will be okay.

Afternoon heat -
miles behind me,

and miles to go.

Shock of sky
and a red-

tail for
the morning.

A pushing
wind. I'm

headed home.