September 28, 2013For Bill Vitt
Brother, I rest on yr arm.
and the leaves do not rustle, the shadow
of hawk or vulture passes noiseless
over our heads & on up the curve of the hill.
Time of drought, but the spring-box
is still half full. Remember the green velvet
topped w/ yellow tore those hills apart
at the turn of other Februaries.
Brother, the woods or the coast
it is all one. It is not far enough.
And the wind passes, the leaves
are still, small animals rot (sweet stench)
in the ditch by the road.
Brother, this interim peace
like the soft furze—not green, not dead
on which we lie together. This
interim peace: that we need not lie
to each other. All night we turn on each other
like the moon
pulling the tides beneath us.
In yr arms
I hear no hunter
& I need no dream.
from #20 - Winter 2003