The Middlewesterner

Birds
and words

in the morning's
silence.

Dawn in the east.
Grey wall to the west.

Water and wisdom between.

In a grey morning,
the great slow bird,

blue and low.

Long light.
A lifting

wind.
Wisdom

in this
stillness.

Line of trees of the same height -
they all know the rules.

"More lines
without a verb?

Yes."

*

"Certainty's like ice
at the spring thaw -

there while it's there,
then not."

*

"It doesn't get you up
in the morning.

It doesn't make you coffee
or take out the trash.

It doesn't spoon worth a damn.
What good is a poem?"

"If you expect
a poem

to do more,
perhaps

you expect
too much."

*

"How can you
write about home

when you've not
gone away?"

*

And how can you
go away

when you don't
know where home is?"

A familiar road.
A well-thumbed map.

Miles to go.
I know them all

and they know me.

Miles
of highway.


A leaf
uncurling.

The spit of it,
grey strangeness of sky,
low-down wind.

Neither rain
nor not rain,

this grey
habit of sky.

Lift your eyes -
the sadness of sky.

"Take a lesson:
shut up and listen."

*

"The race is lost.
I cannot write

faster than the sun
coming up."

*

"If a few
don't get away

you're not chasing
enough of them."

Cowbirds in love,
shudder of

a storm coming on.

Eagle lifts in wet wind.
Sandbar and lazy current
waiting for sun.
White horse in the distance.

Some noisy discontent
among the unhappy crows.
Everything matters, but it
doesn't matter much.

"If already
they're assembling
your firing squad,

you can be
pretty sure it won't
turn out good."

*

"Would I be unkind
if I said the best

is nonsense, and the rest
is empty barrels

knocking about?"

*

"One hopes
that you can

1) write
in the dark, and

2) read it later
in the light."

"You need some?
Here, take these.

I have plenty
where they come from."

*

"Morning. If you
can't find something
to do, you're not

much of a poet."

*

"If you're not
doing what you want,

what the hell
are you doing?"

Dome of silver sky.
A slow rain falls.

It's always grey
when I go away.

A piddling rain.
A speckled lake.

Wisdom of water
finding its way.

The road rises.
Water

runs the other way.

"I bang
it and

bang it,
still

trying to
find the beat."

*

"The more
it is

what it is,

the more
it is

everything."

*

"Is this enough
for a poem -

to get in the car,
start the engine,

and drive away?"

Humbling, this


understanding
one's place in


the scheme of things.

Sadness
like the slice
of a knife.