what’s left of snow
is winter in the crotch
of a tree
sitting this one out
I’d say maybe till April
or even May
this deep in the woods
yes, maybe till late
April
yes, it’d have to
this deep to be cold enough
in a snow
I’ve walked up to my knees
in
a snow like this, yes
to my knees
and then hips
to sit
like a brand new stone
Buddha
thinking maybe the second coming
is something
like this:
maybe God withdraws
the gravity
that’s it--just
pulls up stakes
the same way a man
goes in toward the dam
on Kimbal Hill
looking for his trap line
or rides a mile off
Wallace Cove
to haul in the green
urchin covered lobster traps
poison balls like steroid sucking
barnacles they crawl
and smooch and hiss
bubbles in the gunwale
of the boat like they don’t
know air. I’ve watched
my father brush them
away almost
unnoticing, his thick blue
gloves his own holy
rubber poison proof
vest, just brush them off
like his old dog maybe,
the one he shot
near the corner
of the old Wood’s road
and a something
I don’t know what
but a something comes
up to that dog to
lift his jaw just one more
time to look into the sky
maybe or my father’s eyes
and it’s nothing
anybody can see it’s just,
listen, there’s no intention
even though the poor bastard’s
groping for a hold on the road
like he’ll never know how
to hang on to anything again
he’s maybe feeling like
this is the first time
he’s ever hit me
and
unwounding into the dead
leaves and everything else
that’s laid down here
buried beneath him
he sucks hard on those twin
straw nostrils and smells
brimstone, smells removal
smells what’s going out
of something valuable
but shit
he’s just a dog
he can’t name it
doesn’t even need to
just, you know, right there
below the shoulder
he feels it start to give,
massaging his ribs,
getting in without a key
or even needing one
and holding on
while what’s tipping
the world over
gives itself a little breather
before clearing out
altogether, petting
the dead dog on the head
covering him with leaves
by his favorite tree
and the old chasing stick
to mark him by or
resetting the trap
with fresh bait and setting it--buoy
bouncing bouncing foam
floats the only ever
knowing there’s something
down below there but what
and how much or maybe nothing
at all it won’t say
not can’t but won’t
only in the hands holding
the rope will it speak
and then, even then---
I mean come on
something’s pulling the tongue
into the ground
like an exhausted dog
something sinks
even when God comes
and pulls up steaks.
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