UNTITLED, Riding the Robert Noble

As the Robert Noble is unmoored, a
heron, standing on the jetty rocks, spreads
his great wings, a curious omen, of
what? Darkness? Our doom? That we are fated
for some tragic end? Who knows? We sway and
nudge each other in ways we dare not
on shore--the ferry invites us to share
our bodies as we join the waves, strangers
in the wake and volume of our lives, we
are always departing into this cool
blue existence, aren't we?, this "This is who
I am!" and "That is what I was!", as if
the very sense of being empties itself
into the widening gulf, this bay of being.
Here in this buoyancy you are blind
to the future, this now unraveling
in the foam and sway is the only now
that ever was, waves splashing the sandbar
and shoals, what a pleasure to be freed
from the tyranny of time! That buoy
bobbing off starboard is not is not a warning
or a marker but a sign of affirmation!
No regrets! No danger here! Bird Island
creeps up from the horizon with its
long-billed ibis and egrets stalking the shores
and here, swooping across the deep blue,
a string of white pelicans, they, too, are
immigrants escaping memory. We
are floating in consciousness itself, Gravel
Island, Hog Island, they all slide past like
so many lives we once led, no regrets!,
until the engines slow and the ferry turns
and we dock again, the lines are fastened
and we join the the great sadness, the weight
of our souls, something we know that pulls us
where we do not want to go.

To a Lone Bird on a Phone Line Outside Sevastopol, WI

Look mister, let's
get one thing straight.
Your attitude

needs adjustment,
you've got your beak
all bent outta shape

over what? Perching
there above the field,
feathers all dusty

and raggedy-ass
in the heat like
all this somehow

comes down to you?
I don't think so,
Mister I-don't-give-a

fuck!, Mister Lord-
of-all-creation!,
Mister chirp aleck!


Let's face it.
no one wants to
hear any more of your

cute-as-a-kitten
singing, that sweet
music you seem to

think is so god-
damned important,
we don't want

to hear another
peep! Smart ass!
You best get off

your high horse, mister,
if you know what's
good for you -- it's

high time you started
acting more like
a crow or a hawk

or even an owl,
for Christ's sake, not
some shrunken finch,

it's time you
acted your age. son.
I'll knock that

smirk right off
your beak! I swear,
you think I won't,

but I'm not afraid
to tan your tail
feathers, trim back

your little wing hard.
I mean it. I don't need
your sulking, your

judgement, your high
falutin' airs! Now,
stop acting so

sorry for yourself
and help me rake up
all this hay

before the sun
goes down.

AIRPORT ROAD

Heart of the island, we
ride our old beater bikes
past birches lining the road
just to lie here in the meadow
and wait for the planes
to arrive. We are lost
in the blue, lake wind
blowing back our hair,
gossiping in the tall grass,
the wind sock floats
as casual as a whisper.
From the fields, ripe
hay rolls over us as
grasshoppers click and buzz.
Then we hear the the plane
approach, a lonely drone
as he circles the field,
steel dragonfly drifting
in slow circles, it's all
so narcotic!, so dizzy!,
the earth spinning, hay
and clover smelling of
mock orange and honey,
we're falling too deeply!,
and then the plane swoops
over the haystack, rumples
on the grass and surrenders.
We are passengers
waiting for our next flight
into oblivion, waiting
for the next moment
to come.