A boy is as old as the stars
that will not answer
as old as the last snows
that blacken his hands
though he wakes at 3
and goes to the window
where the crooked fence is blessed
and the long Packard
and the bicycle wheel
though he walk the streets
warm in the halo of his breath
and is blessed over and over
he will waken in the slow dawn
he will call his uncles out
from the sad bars of Irish statesmen
all the old secret reds
who pledge in the park
and raise drinks
and remember Spain
Though he honor the tree
the sierra of snow
the stream that died years ago
though he honor his breakfast
the water in his glass
the bear in his belly
though he honor all crawling
and winged things
the man in his glory
the woman in her salt
though he savor the cup of filth
though he savor Lake Erie
savor the rain burning down
on Gary, Detroit, Wheeling
though my grandmother argues
the first cause of night
and the kitchen cantor mumbles his names
still the grave will sleep
I came this way before
my road ran by your house
crowded with elbows of mist
and pots banging to be filled
my coat was the colors of rain
and six gray sparrows sang
on the branches of my grave
2. A rabbit snared in a fence of pain
screams and screams
I waken, a child again
and answer
I answer my father
hauling his stone up the last few breaths
I answer Moses bumbling before you
the cat circling three times
before she stretches out and yawns
the mole gagged on fresh leaves
In Folsom, Jaroubi, alone before dawn
remembers the long legs of a boy
his own once and now his son’s
Billy Ray holds my hand to his heart
in the black and white still photograph
of the exercise yard
in the long shadows of the rifle towers
we say goodbye forever
Later, at dusk the hills
across the dry riverbed
hold the last light
long after it’s gone
and glow like breath
and it’s not a dream
I see the long coast of the continent
writhing in sleep
this America we thought we dreamed
falling away flake by flake
into the sea
and the sea blackening and burning
I see a man curled up, the size of an egg
I see a woman hidden in a carburetor
a child reduced to one word
crushed under an airmail stamp
or a cigarette
Can the hands rebuild the rocks
can the tongue make air or water
can the blood flow back
into the twigs of the child
can the clouds take back their deaths
3. First light of morning
it is the world again
the domed hills across the gorge
take the air slowly
the day will be hot and long
Jimmy Ray, Gordon, Jaroubi
all the prisoners have been awake
for hours remembering
I walk through the dense brush
down to the river
that descended all night from snow
small stones worn away
old words, lost truths
ground to their essential nonsense
I lift you in my hand
and inhale, the odor of light
out of darkness, substance out of air
of blood before it reddens and runs
When I first knew you
I was a friend to the ox and walked
with Absalom and raised my hand
against my hand
and died for want of you
and turned to stone and air and water
the answer to my father’s tears