Why We’re Not in the Streets
I had written this poem in the spring, but it seems apropos to post it now…
WHY WE’RE NOT IN THE STREETS
weighed down by November snow
these pines have broken
my child is not an open book
snow falling on an iceless lake
this is the secret salt
lights lead up the cabin stairs
gold cocktails prime the blue
the sight of these reflections
across the clear mist
sealing the footprints away
the dogs are restless
I’m afraid they will be shot
for less than a revolution
first vespers next black tea
concentrate then gravitate
oh late woodland empire
smoke frozen in the pipes
sink the shortness of breath
where life has gathered
owned trucks go all out
my child is not yet alive
crawling beneath canoes
millfoil mind empties
walleye termination blooms
every trap is a revolt
cinnabar resin sticks to hands
rot so driftless
as a vigilant substance here
stars like the baby teeth of child soldiers
will to be feral
I can carry you
inside a dormouse of dew
where the galaxy we don’t know
wells into its other being
as property and wilderness
