Beneath every street and road in this town
lies the memory of a multitude of dead rivers and streams-
So that when it shuts down at night, I hope there will be eyes and minds
to see fireflies in and amongst the lights and little lights.
Bright sagas and short stories, hunting trips and brawls,
kisses and forgotten recipes from grandmothers’ lost, secret ways?
Trouble is, latches no longer work
so that each door and window opens to every breeze
and curious nudge from passersby;
while those with high scruples and religiosity
pass by without a clue to what lies within
this crumpled, immensely foreign threshold
on the future and other untouched childhood dreams.
Gravity becomes only a theory when applied liberally;
like relaxation on a summer’s day,
it waxes cold and wan with the evening
and overpowers the dawn like a rancid walnut,
bitterly hidden in a hard shell-
We are pulled toward earth’s center only as far as rock and soil
will allow, and only as far as imagination
accelerates the the diamond drill.
Choose well theses convictions, like children and DNA.
All a feast spread upon a hollow log in a a glade
beset by mosquitos and bears and a big wind from the east;
so we are given much, and as it is to be expected,
each dish lasts only a few seconds before
dissolving into a dust, a thick gravy or disappearing completely-
so choose your seat and course as you might
an instrument of your undoing
and remember that every road was once a river, or every street some sort of stream
so that your eyes only will see the light made
toward the end, and yours will become the recipe’s secret
as unlatched doors swing wide.