Dressing Like Dads
Every night, I dream we are trying to dress like Dads, while
Hazel whips up a casserole & Mr B lances a carbuncle, & I can
lose myself for days reading the due date stamps on the back
page of a library book, or yacht-watching, while the shore
closes in on the water.
There is a bunting in the spear thistle, making a map from
the stars. At ten days of age, they begin looking skyward at dusk,
& marking the spilled salt that moves against the sincere void;
they migrate on cloudless nights, so while they look down,
they can consider the beyond.
Sometimes I wait on the bridge to watch the trains go by:
go gently, please—the ties that bear the rails sing. Now, bedlam
in the skies above the prairie & the flood-plain, & the autumn
you can see & feel & smell has arrived: when the moment
comes, take the last one.
