Trace
Ghosts
have eaten here,
from a rusted can
that rolled down hill,
came to rest
against a rock
where lichen grows black.
All traces
of food
have been licked
by the cold tongue of rain.
The old cooking fire
built in a stone crevice
has a stoic face
burned raw with wind,
its sooty fingerprints
still grip at the wall.
The romantic
smell of wood
has been marched on
and conquered
by pine needles
in their attempt
to carpet the world,
as if to
invite
everything to lie down,
dream Eden again;
small, rocky patches of Heaven
where the ghosts will walk
with hunger no more.
Before
a Bad Artist
You see
something lost when insects test
the validity of window screens. You know
there are too many to all be doing the same
thing at once, yet you can't count a difference
among the humming, buzzing dozens.
You know
in the valley, ignorance echoes
back on everything, stains all necks red.
The sun beats like iron. The pines weep
your apathy. You know there are other
places to be, but you've never gone, never
left the reasons that keep you quiet
beside the seasons of the creek.
You think
you know a thing about loss.
Years have added, multiplied, piled up
like credits to your degree. You decide
bugs are stars of the day, you are blessed
in your loss. You adjust your glasses,
are resistant to contacts 'cause you like
to be able to slip between two ways
of seeing the world as easily as you peel
underwear off or flip the coffeepot switch on.
You tell
wasps and flies that this will be a day
to contemplate which tomorrows to visit.
You say to your cigarette that it is profound.
You judge mothers parading their babies,
grandmothers strolling their dogs, fathers
walking their thick hearts and veins.
You put
Willie Nelson on the stereo and stare
at the ceiling from your back, lifting your glasses
over your eyebrows, then back to your nose.
Everything is fuzzy, everything is clear,
everything is fuzzy, everything is clear.
Copyright © 2000 Danny C. Knestaut
