Red Night

Red Night


Shades of legs walking down corridors
In thunder, under the red sky after
A storm has passed on to the east.
I can see them moving to the country,
Which is now full of ground mist
And damp fingers of summer life.
These delicate limbs, engineered to
Hold such a great weight, bounce
Rhythms deep within the earth, hollow
Beats on the chambered ground. They
Call many things to life, as they have
Done with changes in themselves.
The first were light, smaller and clawed,
With spotted backs like fawns, with
Bright eyes that ringed themselves
And searched the fireless nights.
In the madness of fear, these small things
Grew stronger, faster, grew rounded hooves
To pound through the open nights,
Baring teeth and throwing power through
Muscled limbs. Wolves would fall
With legs severed at the shoulder, jaws
Shattered. Men would hang from painted
Shoulders, cooking slices of flesh beneath
Saddles as they rode, merging flesh
To hide. In certain parts of the sea,
Some fell to the gaping mouths
Of sharks, slicking the surface
Of a new blood plain, streaked toward
Dawn in its madness. Now, as I watch
Them streak toward the night woods,
I look over their backs to see the
Vapor stained shapes of old lives,
Tragically articulated in the lines
Of still-living forms.


One screams out, holding
Its long jaws oddly apart, looking
Anywhere but where I stand.
Its leg is tangled in a bundle of wire,
Rusted and matted with leaves,
Impossibly complicated, digging
Blood from the bony shin, pale
With the dust of the passing herd.


In this dream I pull madly at
The bundle, with my own
Arms now impossibly tangled in the
Rusted mass, trampled and dragged
Without pain, somehow rising and
Falling with the staggering gait
Of the condemned.


Now it screams and twists
In the air, head down, biting
The metal like a dog, tearing itself
Apart, its whale eye glowing
With the reflected sunset.


The metal bundle is now a flame,
Darkness surrounds the circle
Of redness, blood on the ground,
The animal now dropped to its knees,
Still screaming, wheezing, weakening,
And I have disappeared into the flame.


In this dream I feel the ground shake
Once more. I feel the coming of another
Passing herd, and watch as they trample
The place of struggle. Each is all, and
They move as birds wheeling in the sky.
When they have passed, there are only
Embers left on the ground.

In April, for my Old Lady

In April, for my old lady:


Your old bones are showing,
As you jingle and clatter. You
Are thirsty every hour, no food
Is enough. Once I prayed for
Your long life.


It was given


And I prayed for you to
Return to me.


And you came back.


You ran sleek in summer,
With long deer legs, not
Strong. Your eyes shone
In connection, as earth flew
Behind you.


Once, a wolf dug a hole
In your side.


It was sewn.


You walked with horses,
Bared your teeth.


Now,


Your old bones are telling
Me that I might be the one
Who sees you out.

Now I pray that I will find
You silent, still, curled
On the old towel you prefer to
A bed.


I will hang your tag on my wall,
Wrap you in cloth,
Offer food for your journey,
Spread flowers over you,
Cover you with earth,
Leave you in an old place
I can always find.

Dreams in Spring

Dreams in Spring


The eye sees each new growth
Separate from the old,


As if living things are new miracles.
Even with the knowledge of


Decades, longer, there is something
In men forgetful and unforgivable.


As the first greens appear, and thoughts
Turn to years reeling in consciousness,


Lifetimes fisheyed and colored in the
Surreal breath of lapsing days;


It is not enough to only see. To remember
Is to connect these things as they are.


It is to sacrifice the hollow comfort
Of memory, to understand that


The past is a shifting thing, false
And corrupting. Wakeful


Eyes see the new life of spring as
An uncertain upward reaching,


The hope of the dead, their claim
To this world, far beyond our


Modern sight. As stars shine their
Dead light through darkness,


Our momentary flashes are seen
Only in part. Other eyes watch


From more solid ground, dropped
Suddenly and impartially from


Dreamlife. They see us as we are,
Their own cells and life parts


Reborn ever as children in this world,
Never seeing. I would like to think


That they guide us, and perhaps they
Do: Mothers come in dreams,


Walking down a familiar hill, aged
As if the body had never died.


A brother walking in the dusk,
To the window of his dreamlife


Sister, reaching to lay a hand on the back
Wall of the house that once held him.


Perhaps they are saying: Rest your poor
Bodies, for you will no longer need it


Once you are like me.
There is no time anymore, only days.


There is no past anymore, only sight.
Only now, never then.