The beagle paces outside my door

while eighteen musicians

pound bone, cymbal and vine against the wall.

At the top of the stairs,

At the top of the stairs

The children view glowing images at the family altar.

 

Rising stars are long past burning,

now glowing, crouching, as brown embers

shoved into the heart of the earth

glowing like anvil eyes along the road.

while heat from the coals rises in high haven

and layers creosote on the wooden trunks above.

 

These trunks soar in rigid abruptness.

They are thorned and bear no leaves.

We have spent another night painting and working.

And There’s not enough of it for any of us.

 

A satin doll dances along

a ribbon river of blacktop running through country summer.

The grass grows long, green,

and lush in the ditches.

A bulbous, cankerous, heavy metal automobile

lunges up over a hill.

The whites of its balloon tires pass over the row of center-line markers

rising on the spine of the road.

Glistening eyes of brown spread like suckers

on an endless tentacle whipped out over the grade.

Each eye rooted into the meat of the earth.

 

Soon I'll finish here and I'll take the beagle for a walk.

We'll roll out of the house

singing under the heat and rain

looking past the night lights

into the dark sky

Where All the stars have been rained out,

 

steaming in the brown liquid,

shoved into the heart of the earth

while she sleeps along the road,

dreaming of places far away where

long green valleys worship up against your side,

where your back is never weak,

and true nerves of steel, aluminum, and copper,

are strung high on wooden trunks.

 

A thermometer of an automobile rises over the hill,

color in rusty primer,

danger staring out of its tiny split windshield.

cautious as it moves down the road,

watching the glistening brown eye spots

Each eye rooted, containing a single poison spine.

 

Worn stars burn slowly, oily, in basements and caverns.

flushing brown liquid into the mouth of the earth

as she sleeps along the side of the road.

Nerves are growing out her arms, legs, and head,

looking for new places to sprout.

I am living softly, breathing carefully, waking slowly to danger.

 

The grass, however, grows recklessly,

stirred in frenzy in the gullies where it is washing toward the lakes.

Down there, in the swamps,

small boys are being slowly tortured by frogs

who know nothing about what they are doing.

 

Giant killer beagles from outer space pace outside my door.

Eighteen musicians, from the planet mollusk,

pound bone, cymbal and vine against my wall.

At the top of the stairs,

my Thuppa rollers another layer of paint

wondering why it keeps flaking off

while my children view glowing images at the family altar.

And there are so many places you can go.

 

 

Rising stars, now glowing

as brown embers crouch,

shoved into the heart of the earth along the road

glowing like anvil eyes.

 

Long dark creosoted trunks rise high above the grass,

soaring in rigid abruptness.

They are thorned and bear no leaves.

We have spent another night painting, and working.

and there is not enough life for anyone.

 

Soon I'll finish here and I'll take the beagle for a walk.

We'll roll out of the house

singing under the heat and rain

looking past the night lights into the dark sky.

Where all the stars have been rained out,

steaming in the brown liquid,

streaming and shoved into the heart of the earth

while she sleeps along the road,

dreaming of places far away

where long green valleys worship up against your side,

where your back is never weak,

and true nerves are strung on.

 

Soon I'll finish there

I’ll pass from one world to another

and I'll take a new beagle for a walk,

out into the shadows of gray and twilight

where the trees loom in the darkening skies

higher than I had ever realized

and the lightening licks the belly of the sky.

 

The air is good,

The grass is reckless,

stirred in frenzy

washing toward the lakes

where small boys and frogs

have grown wild.