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Collected Poetry
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Beating Heart, Dancing Feet
Dread
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He left his presence on the lawn and then walked behind a native bush where he relieved himself upon the roots. But nothing else was spilling from him which caused him to tremble and feel ill. He returned to cut some roses but the roses looked unkind and alien; there was not a likeness in his mind to accompany the rose, no manifestation. He left the roses to themselves. He turned the handle on the hose bib and pointed the nozzle toward his garden. Water darkened the earth between the lettuce. Some finches lit upon the silk tree and let their chirping cause him wonder. He watched the finches in the silk tree and found their lives to be like his. He cocked his ear and listened. He watered. He viewed the silk tree and the finches and the other pieces fixed upon his yard. He looked beyond his yard and marveled at the beauty of the foothills as his heart kept beating while he cut some roses. Something terrible was yet to happen at some point in time—something certain. He remembered a dream which woke him that morning. He lived in a fine house with his wife and daughters in a mountain jungle at the end of a fire road. Outside he ran in panic, but some thing had only frightened them. He fixed himself on the veritable likeness. back | ToC | next
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