Crest

Crows duck the eleventh mourning,

wooden calls perfected by holy Moses

wash the desert off his boots.

Cockled wind dares me to cough

in the Grand Canyon, disappear into oblivion,

endless rock ballad of Dylan and Moby Dick

diaries on ritual father son fishing trips,

ancient dips in a Roman bath-house,

circle swim colloquium of middle-aged minds,

mosaic made in different shades of white,

ecru off and barely apart from Heaven’s

celestial ribbon tugging tautly upward.

Nature’s careworn silk worm

breaks the seal on her chrysalis,

bare naked breath trystless ladles

morning sun water over the ridge

of her hip bones, gold intone and chants

this forevermore in his daydreams

on the back porch, spitting sunflower seed shells

over the banister and into the garden:

hyacinth, huckleberry, and Job,

standing forthright on the chimney,

staring me into grace. 

The homeless talk enthusiastically

about last night’s trashcan bonfire

as if it were the sarcastic nectar of life,

beholden to nothing and no one,

if only in terms of sentiment. 

The resentment of my former selves

is no longer worth waiting on.

Grounded in the hymn of silence—

the resilience of the soul to drive

in the darkest of climates.