Pleasant Valley Road
“The world is governed by chance. Randomness stalks us every day of our lives."
A dog tells me where I cannot go.
There are fences everywhere,
no one else for what seems, miles.
Hummingbirds pillage the groundcover.
Purple Loosestrife gain,
Spring Hoverfly hold
to what breezes they can,
Foxglove, Wild Carrot root
like tossed bridal gowns.
The house to my left
is the house where I lived.
A tricycle disintegrates
where the heat got to it.
A swing emptied over the lawn,
a mother’s voice in the kitchen
a father’s boots
dropped to the floor.
An open window
turns the temperature out.
Beyond the house a field
where my brother
and I hid, a yellow field, moon burned;
where we hunted crickets,
held ice-colored mice, bright as stars.
The rusted barrel where I hid
my brother’s tennis shoes
has a tear where the weather’s been.
A branch on the ground leans toward it.
Nothing is too dark that can’t be lived in.
Ask the Owl, my brother said.
Silence never leaves the throat entirely.
everywhere on the tips of trees,
The barn has a tin roof the rain clawed,
empty of everything but summer moods.
I hear the stream behind our house,
fish withdraw between green-husked stones.
Salmon, trout, drag the water.
The moon relinquishes the past.
Our feet languish at the water’s edge.
The church bell rusts.
Still, it has a lever to be pulled,
sound to open.
The bright ballast of the front yard trees
echo the wind
and the arms that swung from them,
my brother’s laughter as round
as the mouth of a tire stars fill.
Rubbed leaves split underfoot,
trumpet the soil.
Where there were feet,
there’s no more color.
Someone is heard singing
in a kitchen of baked bread.
I remember all the words,
the sky-ward-ness through the curtains,
the faint whistling
drawing circles with its pitch,
what a mother sounds like,
a father, an untethering, a thread,
the muddy constellation of a shoe.
There’s no end to journey.
I mean such things as this:
The way a fish looks up at the sky,
asters of eyes, sweet moss remains.