Colorless birds and those with color, the wind fingering

The twigs, and the furred creatures doing whatever

Furred creatures do. So, and so. There is the smell of fruit

And the smell of wet coins. There is the sound of a bird

Crying, and the sound of water that does not move....

If I pick the dead iris? If I wave it above me

Like a flag, a blazoned flag? My fanfare? Little fare

With which I buy my way, making things brave?

No, that is not it. Uncovering what is brave. The way

Now I bend over and with my foot turn up a stone,

And there they are: the armies of pale creatures who

Without cease or doubt sew the sweet sad earth.

Two Boys

The boy drowned in the bog. Not a pretty sight.

Not a pretty end. And it no accident. And him

A stranger in town. Rank the berries in the bushes.

And mute the birds. Not like birds at all.

And afternoon come too soon, and then

Come no longer....What is the life of a man?

Or one not even a man? Has it the shape of a bird?

Or a dog? Or an insect dressed in robes of white

And robes of green? And if a life takes its own life?

If a man takes from himself a man? Or a bird

From a bird? Or a dog from a dog? What is

That like? Birds may fall faster than thought,

But a dog is no lamb, it will not easily strangle—

Greenness like fire will not swiftly stamp out....

The boy drowned in the bog. He came from

A long way off to lie down in such sickly water.

Not like water at all. Poor and brown. Not one

Fish in it, not one blind fish. There would

Have been a better time. Or place. Better.

But fate, what is it? Who met the boy

By daylight? And how did he know him? By

What seal on the forehead? Talon or star?

Who said, Thus far shall you come and no

Farther? This circle of beaten trees. This ring

Of dark water. Who raised the curtain?

Who prompted the action? Who conceived

It in the first place? What prophet in what

Dark room? Did he weep when he wrote

Down the words? Did he watch till the end,

Or did he leave that for others? And what

Did the flesh smell like when the prophecy

Was sealed? A burned flower? Or ripened fruit?

What sang in the trees before the boy

Lay down or after? A child? Or the light?

Or nothing. Just a bird. Nothing. And then

Night coming on. And morning coming after....

And so we have a story. But still the story

Does not end. Green the cress by the water.

Green the insect’s wing. Now the living boy

Finds the dead one. A gift for early rising.