You come to me but I
wander around.
I touch everything but you
till you
remove the blind
and see for me
you.
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Horses
The country squire
On falling asleep to Williams’ Lark Ascending
There’s a measure of peace in all things,
a first warm sky of the season
in every bleating cold rainy dark
and so, though I see
neither through nor branch
in the blue from my couch,
my body’s settled to become
a meadow for the birds
Wally holds his tongue at the table
Your freedom is just a
chomping down on life,
a crunching of the world and self to bits,
a decorous atomization
Dutch house 17 November 2016
Of weeds and wheat and smoke and fire
The Gronk has a punctured lung
maybe
the paper says
and you can still see the hit
the one-two
and still feel how
you were glad for it
after what he did to us
two years ago
catching that pass.
What Christ thinks of football I don’t want to know,
but I can see his eye
and hear his breath,
and I’d best be off
before I think some more.
Songs of travel
I join my son at his video game –
At the rat-a-tat. I don’t like it.
The kills, I don’t like it.
Care packages,
tumbling, hulking soldiers
dropping – I don’t like it. No,
I don’t like it.
But I like him.
He courts the autumnal mood
