Poetry

Poetry

II

Lantern flicker festered around dark torsions, 

a peppered morse half dispatched, lost near 

the ash and moss. A farmhouse at the ready

like a collie in fog, yet the fence bent

by the plod of hooves wanting

to know something other.

 

The lap of dark matter, particles sunk deep 

to a damp graveness only an oarsman would 

know. His keel curls a low throat gauzy yawn 

waiving onto the strand. To follow out, to want

to wade the Atlantic— forced to stay

behind the grain.

 

I

Twill texture, electric heat,

ash, wheat—fuel for our bletting. 

A damp bell rattle, black cattle

nestle in the threads of a morning. 

We tread lightly.

 

Shovels glint with fresh grit,

cattle aware of us quelling the grain,

and the slow churn of change.

 

Interlude

In the pine behind 

you grows a grove 

of endurance noticed

while sucking honey

from your lobes. 

 

I am but a tendril in 

a slow reach to the core 

of your bones. Wind about

me, reach for mine.

 

 

Cycle

Tucked tight, throttling in

the thin motion of speed, 

the late corn clatters

in the field, wind catching

on the pedals. Coursing

distinctly, breathing

machinery operating in

the cavity of endurance.

 

In this quiet science,

my hide sharpens a blade, 

which quivers and slits

attachment away – I hide

in the cycle.

 

 

 

Blue Ridge

The blue ridge cradles

the left-behinds.

Black barns.

Dead hens. 

Paper canoes.

 

Go slow, love.

Notice what we don’t want. 

 

Passing as the ridge fades into the sound.

The dogwoods nod as we nest

into the Currituck coast to molt,

to change.