Possible
Peaches and Bats
Brats


Possible


If it were possible for a scarlet tanager
to memorialize its life of heartbeat and song,
would it bother to drop the worm
and describe, for the ages, the delicate flesh?

If it were possible for a dandelion
to pace the grass on toothy leaves
would it be tempted to prowl the neighborhood
in search of more sumptuous dirt?

If a plumber spread a checkered cloth
and lay down, doing nothing to fix
the wandering clouds, would the world
feel his indolence as a dearth?

Night might give up
its inky cloak, allowing the stars
to unfasten their long stems
and experiment with fireflies.

The void might have to empty itself
into a teacup and sing Hey nonny nonny
to the blue-flowered rim
while the cat twitched its whiskers

and the hat rack circled the vestibule,
marking it with the subtle scent of its resin
while reading, with splayed feet,
the knitted inscriptions of rain.


Peaches and Bats

Call it the soul, round thing, some fuzz,
misapprehension deep in the pit,
the claw, the beyond-audible shriek

and the inherent twilight. The bruising, the blush,
the odor. We lift it to our nose, we crinkle
our nose at it, we shy away, they are shy.

And this is happiness and long life
elsewhere. I carry the thing home and place it
on the floor because my furniture

is too meager to bear its history,
this orb with its chipped lid, painted shapes
circling the surface like disgraced, persistent planets.

Enduring. Longing.
But still the bats, the peaches,
the yeast of them, what we all want,

the living, the yellow background
with the flags of azure, a green promise girdling
the squat barrel that gleams in the corner like a gland.


Brats

You have to take what comes, what choice
in a dingy field sudden storm burnt-out bulb
in the tall streetlamp

riot of criss-cross and stumbling,
dry rot and blossom rot and berries
not to be plucked but bending

behind a leaf, like they were
all those years, daydreaming in rows
with their bug bites and their bodies

ripening. They opened their history
books and watched the pages yellow
before they could understand them,

went with their mothers to the docks
when the ships sailed in, arrivals
that made front-page news but then sat numb

in the recliner while the sun set fire
to the blinds and mute dust motes
swirled and fell. The knife

that has done its bleeding speaks
to what it cuts,
says your turn.