Poet’s work with two materials, one’s black and one’s white.
In my work the white is everything but me and the black is me.
—Glyn Maxwell, On Poetry
Age drips, bruises, swells, oozes, hard freeze. Dad—in the hospital
blots, aches, wobbles—shingle less, room, light blades thrusted through
a roof balding thin from sunrise to cracked blinds, steadily slicing away
sunset. Lawns scorched in summer, his life. Chemo sagged his face until
buds frozen in late freeze, goodness he ceased beneath steely sheets. My
hanging on scaffolds and evil pulling daylight shaded amber as his shadow
trapdoors. No, not all is morbid and darkened to its last veil. Seems eons
regrettable and I, in hardy health, am ago. On the S-shaped, metal patio
jubilant and buoyant (with onset of a rocking chair, a slight nod on this
gimpy knee, peering hernia, groggy oversized spring nudges Emma and
mornings from my C-PAP mistress.) me up and down, up, down, buoy-
This old army surplus pup tent frays. bobbing on porch seas. Eyelashes
Buttons missing, but nonetheless I flutter. She swoons into baby dream
am water repellant. I retain a glimpse on my chest, milk frosting her lip.
of wonder. In that marsh when cattails Wisteria fragrance crests through
cry dewdrops down whiskered stems— rusty screens. I saw the nativity
a muskrat veers through lily pads— born in many hearts and watched
feathery clouds nestle duck-egg-blue masses clinging to sacred straw
skies. How the shrine of morning light floating on wormwood waters. I
vanishes without its temple of shadows! have marched against the fur of life
A time ago: a swallow swerved in a and meandered on Potter’s Field. I
barn loft, dust dancers streamed on light type with hands growing liver-spot
shafts. Wall planks warped, split from colonies; blue serpentine veins
baking suns and pummeling rain. There pump ancient blood toward this
is a crack in the heavens; the leak is antique chest. I am the black that
what I know as this earth. Perhaps the traced flashpoints of my life, and
kingdom of God is my heart, plundered under the sun the same fate befalls
of demonic and divine shrines—a dark, everyone. Love the days allotted.
still sanctuary where I rest some summer It is in the whiteness herein, not me,
nights. The suet cage is empty until next guiding me through my last pulse.