The Middlewesterner

Iron sky
and a cold wind -

where
has summer gone?

Crisp freshness
of morning
in autumn -

my eyes on
blue sky
and sun.

Is it the wind
that has taken
the autumn leaves

or have the leaves
taken the wind?

The soybeans
have turned.

Autumn shows
some ankle.

“Some poets say
Turn left right here

when what they mean is
Plow on.”

*

“How to say good-
bye to a poet -

Hug your friend
and go.”

*

“Poem, a fester
that will not heal.”

“We've got a deal,” he said.
“I don't go to church and

God doesn't sleep in my bed.”

*

“If they
truly be
angels,

they don't
need wings.”

*

“Ah, poetry, you always
get in the way of
where I'm going.”

Thick fog,
into which

the world
disappears,

or I do.

Ah, the
wisdom

of sleep, the
brightness

of morning,
rising.

Ring-tailed
at the side of the road,
motionless,

eyes gone dark.

Feedmill or a church
in the fog? To a good man

it doesn't matter.

Missed your exit?
Open your heart and

any road will take you.

“No,” he said,
“I cannot

turn it off.
The poem

forces itself
upon me.”

*

“If there be
God, his

business
exceeds your

small-minded
insistence.

And if not,
he's not

God.”

*

“You want to
catch them
as they flit past.”

“Silence
is better than

nothing.”

*

“Work your words
and work them
some more.

You will not
wear them out.”

*

“If you can't
do it with just
guitar and bass,”
he said,

“it wasn't much
of a song
to start with.”

Edge of the world
at the wall of fog.

Nowhere else to go.

Crow, the only
color
in this grey world.

Full urgency
of the creek.

Above it,
the crow -

what does it
seek?

The roundness
of the empty day -

wood lots disappearing
into fog, the crow

with nowhere to go.

Darkness or day?
Fog so thick
I cannot say.

“Fifty years
a poet

before I am
comfortable

with the.”

*

“The question is,”
he said, “will I

run out of words,
or paper?”

*

“Like God, the sun
does not know

the half of it.”

“The poet worth
reading does not
know the answer,

but understands
the question.”

*

“The poem is what's left
when you've torn up your notes.”

*

“An answer does not
disturb the question.”

Slow is just
fast enough.

I am headed west.
I think. What can you

know for certain?

Swallowed into
the maw of greyness

like Jonah
in the whale,

but without hope
of redemption.

Disappointment
is an eternal condition.

Emptiness
scraped even

emptier.
No one's fault

but my own.

Upside down moon,
this
ocean-faced morning.

“Set aside
what you think
you know

and listen.”

*

“A proper
poem

acknowledges
the stones.”

*

“Why would I want to
wear your brand? Isn't
it bad enough that

I am myself?”

“Make your notes.
Make your futile
notes and pay attention.

The poem will come.”

*

“Not much time
and not much space

but lots of words
to feed the darkness.”

*

“Religious or not,
you are only a

lump of molecules
with attitude

waiting to disintegrate.”

Dead squirrel
on the highway.

What he thought
at the end -

Uh-oh!

Believe
in stones.

They believe
in you.

Happiness
like a sudden squall

as if her heart
dances.