How Meadows Trick You

I said the glint was thistle. It turned out tin.

The place had a history of picnics.

Include the last sad hour, others left for home,

paper scattered, the long long angle of sun.

In games, children took turns dying

in the run-down barn, and whatever animal

roared in the woods that ringed the meadow,

in time he grew tame, his roar was part of the play.

And what would it matter now if I found it,

was reassured it all happened once, even

the women who, given these years, I’m convinced

I invented. Or was that earlier, in snow

where I’d fallen and one was smiling above me

saying her name: Laurie Roy? That can’t be.

I used to remember everything that happened

plain as the love on her face. Now it mixes

and fades. A jungle. A blistering day

in the desert. Typhoon. The Taranto docks.

Grim G.I.’s on the ship sailing west.

If I say thistle and the glint is tin

and picnics never happened, you can believe

something in me is modern. I am no longer

always the last to leave. When I find that meadow

I love and drive off certain some places remain,

I take stock of the light. You can believe the dark

on its way and the durable women

who hover ahead of your car and pilot you home.