The swamp at the end of our cozy county road
does nothing for the value of what we own;
it’s what the agents call an eyesore
and the neighbors never mention to their friends,
half-wishing what they never set in words
will not exist. I’m standing by the stumps
that fizzle like antacid tabs in water,
the tatty oaks too old for leaves, loose
at the roots like blackened teeth that wobble
in the gums, a periodontal nightmare.
This was once a lake, old-timers say,
remembering the sunny Sunday picnics
where these moss banks grow or, some say,
“fester.” Frogs exhale into the midday air.
The green-gold water pops its blisters.
Winds are redolent of larval scum
that might well be a soothing balm for backache
in an old wives’ tale if old wives lived.
The Indians came out in bark canoes
two centuries ago; now Boy Scouts tramp
the margins for a merit badge or two,
birdwatchers wait for oddly feathered friends,
and secret moralists inspect the setting
for its sheer decay. I like it how
what happens happens out of sight here.
Business goes on beneath the surface.
Transformations: water into froth,
great hulking logs to pulp and steam.
Here every change is hidden but complete,
all purposes obscured—a skilled dismantling,
de-creation into light and air.