North

The Green Mountains grow weary
if they try to love one less like god. They like to be
misunderstood, let nothing in or out.
The birds’ black shadows cool the air for hours,
the train like a blind blue caterpillar
goes straight behind the backs of things—downed barns
twisted bikes, plywood sheds, red morning glories
crawling up the air.

The yellow river closes in, getting
away from all fragilities and dreams.
It is an old abyss mouthing inhuman speech
from a stomach of mud. It disappears the roads
that might have hoped to leave or get somewhere—

to face-lit rooms or trains to the sea,
to anywhere but here, the sky so wide
it eats the birds, the lakes so slick and still
if you look for fish or futures you’ll see
only your own blank face staring back, the moon
an amber slice across your cheek.

Generation

He didn’t have the face of a man
but was the back of a chair,
a black corner into which his son’s red ball
bounced once and didn’t come back.
He served turnips at table to teach sacrifice,
original sin. His wife drank the sea
and its fish too, turned her cheek, sang
instead of speaking. She is buried
by a breakwater.
When a fire started in the church
they sent their son with buckets.
He sustained burns, was the second one,
and therefore worthless. He built a house
and a sandalwood harpsichord,
renounced his father, God, loved watches,
their ticking mechanisms. Though the gentlest
creator, he never forgave
his daughter for playing too close to a lake—
for flaunting her life
in front of death. That’s why she moves
like a latched box, even now,
not wanting to betray herself.
I watch her watch me
scour the heirloom plate. I don’t ask

what it means to be born. It’s a sea
that gets deeper. It’s hawks overcoming hawks
in a fit of music.