41.
Looking at our kids' art, the kind re-shapings
Of their way of seeing what we showed them
It all makes sense now doesn't it
How warped we are against their weft—
The tension of the loom, the straight threads
Of parallelism
Such similar tracks, but only unified
Under stress, piqued by wattles
Rift by shots of color
Bent by the furor of shuttling
So close to the work that one can only see the patterns
From across the room
Like reading a full page ad in the Times
Or looking out over the balcony at the bulbs
Planted last year.
42.
We will travel on a train again
And see once more the bends in iron rails
And follow all the rules the men in olive tell us:
How to what to where to when to
And hear them disagree on times and tickets,
And miss the five-time surely confirmed express by hours,
But later feast on all those foods that form
Our bodies’ taste;
Of fish and fowl and all the crawling things in Genesis
And all the deuteronomously forbidden fleshes
And everything sauced and festooned with the exodus of excess.
43.
But that black tin train will dock in some quaint pink stucco slip
And the moods we dip into will unleash the beast
And mistake our delight for coyote yelps
As airbuoyant as killers at the kill can be.
The roundhouse in the olive grove is now
A roundhouse right and I totter
Into those slim maws of ululating canines, fiery eyes
Slick with the sight of slight blood.
44.
Any fool can see how life is lived
When stock flat on the drive,
But driving blindly, speedily over milk yellow
Hills, the contours blur, the sounds are insanely Dopplered
Into a doppelgänged siege of fanged drones,
Humming near the bone-tonal center,
A banal bourdon of Judge-bees and Doo-bees
Hiding in their hive, pulling strings, eating through the beams
Of wood, of sun, of smiles
As ancient history.
