|Jan/Feb 2007 Poetry|
Night Along Front Street
The Clark Fork River cold catching on rocks
cresting blackwhite in night: rush-open-iris.
A pick-up backs slowly from the house;
exhaust plumes out vague words.
In a flash of brake light red sudden eyes look to the past,
oiled cloth comes over the sky and angels salt the road.
Everything you knew melts in these hours;
ivy creeps the house windows in death patterns.
You have always sought yourself in darkness in fear in
card games and running drunkenness.
Through the house the clock anticipates. Something
will appear by morning.
Where is the walk out of here? How are heavy stones moved?
Listen for old seed deciding to flower.
The God of Fire voices in your rooms:
everything you recognized was already yours; itís true.
Orion settles the sword. Swans carry sun on silver wires.
The river is swollen with spring, churning,
passing state lines.