want to buy the entire suit to bury my dad in,
or just the coat? I don’t
have to provide the answer to this,
or anything else. But, hey, he went
into the furnace wearing his britches.
This morning I looked at his picture.
Big, heavyset guy in the last year
of his life. Holding a monster salmon
in front of the shack where he lived
in Fortuna, California. My dad.
He’s nothing now. Reduced to a cup of ashes,
and some tiny bones. No way
is this any way
to end your life as a man.
Though as Hemingway correctly pointed out,
all stories, if continued far enough,
end in death. Truly.
Lord, it’s almost fall.
A flock of Canada geese passes
high overhead. The little mare lifts
her head, shivers once, goes back
to grazing. I think I will lie down
in this sweet grass. I’ll shut my eyes
and listen to wind, and the sound of wings.
Just dream for an hour, glad to be here
and not there. There’s that. But also
the terrible understanding
that men I loved have left
for some other, lesser place.
Loafing
I looked into the room a moment ago,
and this is what I saw —
my chair in its place by the window,
the book turned facedown on the table.
And on the sill, the cigarette
left burning in its ashtray.
Malingerer! my uncle yelled at me
so long ago. He was right.
I’ve set aside time today,
same as every day,
for doing nothing at all.
Sinew
The girl minding the store.
She stands at the window
picking a piece of pork
from her teeth. Idly
watching the men in serge suits,
waistcoats, and ties,
dapping for trout on Lough Gill,
near the Isle of Innisfree.
The remains of her midday meal
congealing on the sill.
The air is still and warm.
A cuckoo calls.
Close in, a man in a boat,
wearing a hat, looks
toward shore, the little store,
and the girl. He looks, whips
his line, and looks some more.
She leans closer to the glass.
Goes out then to the lakeside.
But it’s the cuckoo in the bush
that has her attention.
The man strikes a fish,
all business now.
The girl goes on working
at the sinew in her teeth.
But she watches this well-dressed
man reaching out
to slip a net under his fish.
In a minute, shyly, he floats near.
Holds up his catch for the girl’s pleasure.
Doffs his hat. She stirs and smiles
a little. Raises her hand.
A gesture which starts the bird
in flight, toward Innisfree.
The man casts and casts again.
His line cuts the air. His fly
touches the water, and waits.
But what does this man
really care for trout?
What he’ll take
from this day is the memory of
a girl working her finger
inside her mouth as their glances
meet, and a bird flies up.
They look at each other and smile.
In the still afternoon.
With not a word lost between them.
Waiting
Left off the highway and
down the hill. At the
bottom, hang another left.
Keep bearing left. The road
will make a Y. Left again.
There’s a creek on the left.
Keep going. Just before
the road ends, there’ll be
another road. Take it
and no other. Otherwise,
your life will be ruined
forever. There’s a log house
with a shake roof, on the left.
It’s not that house. It’s
the next house, just over
a rise. The house
where trees are laden with
fruit. Where phlox, forsythia,
and marigold grow. It’s
the house where the woman
stands in the doorway
wearing sun in her hair. The one
who’s been waiting
all this time.
The woman who loves you.
The one who can say,
“What’s kept you?”
IV
The Debate
This morning I’m torn
between responsibility to myself, duty
to my publisher, and the pull
I feel toward the river
below my house. The winter-
run steelhead are in,
is the problem. It’s
nearly dawn, the tide
is high. Even as
this little dilemma
occurs, and the debate
goes on, fish
are starting into the river.
Hey, I’ll live, and be happy,
whatever I decide.
Its Course
The man who took 38 steelhead out
of this little river
last winter (his name is Bill Zitter,
“last name in the directory”)
told me the river’s changed its course
dramatically, he would even say
radically, since he first moved here,
he and his wife. It used to flow
“yonder, where those houses are.”
When salmon crossed that shoal at night,
they made a noise like water boiling
in a cauldron, a noise like you were
scrubbing something on a washboard.
“It could wake you up from a deep sleep.”
Now, there’s no more salmon run.
And he won’t fish for steelhead
this winter, because Mrs Zitter’s
eaten up with cancer. He’s needed
at home. The doctors expect
she’ll pass away before the New Year.
“Right where you’re living,” he goes on,
“that used to be a motorcycle run.
They’d come from all over the county
to race their bikes. They’d tear up
that hill and then go down
the other side. But they were
just having fun. Young guys. Not
like those gangs today, those bad apples.”
I wished him luck. Shook his hand.
And went home to my house, the place
they used to race motorcycles.
Later, at the table in my room, looking
out over the water, I give some thought
to just what it is I’m doing here.
What it is I’m after in this life.
It doesn’t seem like much,
in the end. I remembered what he’d said
about the young men
and their motorcycles.
Those young men who must be old men
now. Zitter’s age, or else
my age. Old enough, in either case.
And for a moment I imagine
the roar of the engines as they surge
up this hill, the laughter and
shouting as they spill, swear, get up,
shake themselves off, and walk
their bikes to the top.
Where they slap each other on the back
and reach in the burlap bag f
or a beer.
Now and then one of them gunning it
for all it’s worth, forcing his way
to the top, and then going lickety-
split down the other side!
Disappearing in a roar, in a cloud of dust.
Right outside my window is where
all this happened. We vanish soon enough.
Soon enough, eaten up.
September
September, and somewhere the last
of the sycamore leaves
have returned to earth.
Wind clears the sky of clouds.
What’s left here? Grouse, silver salmon,
and the struck pine not far from the house.
A tree hit by lightning. But even now
beginning to live again. A few shoots
miraculously appearing.
Stephen Foster’s “Maggie by My Side”
plays on the radio.
I listen with my eyes far away.
The White Field
Woke up feeling anxious and bone-lonely.
Unable to give my attention to anything
beyond coffee and cigarettes. Of course,
the best antidote for this is work.
“What is your duty? What each day requires,”
said Goethe, or someone like him.
But I didn’t have any sense of duty.
I didn’t feel like doing anything.
I felt as if I’d lost my will, and my memory.
And I had. If someone had come along
at that minute, as I was slurping coffee, and said,
“Where were you when I needed you?
How have you spent your life? What’d you do
even two days ago?” What could I have said?
I’d only have gawped. Then I tried.
Remembered back a couple of days.
Driving to the end of that road with Morris.
Taking our fishing gear from the jeep.
Strapping on snowshoes, and walking across the white field
toward the river. Every so often
turning around to look at the strange tracks
we’d left. Feeling glad enough to be alive
as we kicked up rabbits, and ducks passed over.
Then to come upon Indians standing in the river
in chest-high waders! Dragging a net for steelhead
through the pool we planned to fish.
The hole just above the river’s mouth.
Them working in relentless silence. Cigarettes
hanging from their lips. Not once
looking up or otherwise acknowledging
our existence.
“Christ almighty,” Morris said.
“This is for the birds.” And we snowshoed back
across the field, cursing our luck, cursing Indians.
The day in all other respects unremarkable.
Except when I was driving the jeep
and Morris showed me the three-inch scar
across the back of his hand from the hot stove
he’d fallen against in elk camp.
But this happened the day before yesterday.
It’s yesterday that got away, that slipped through
the net and back to sea.
Yet hearing those distant voices down the road just now,
I seem to recall everything. And I understand
that yesterday had its own relentless logic.
Just like today, and all the other days in my life.
Shooting
I wade through wheat up to my belly,
cradling a shotgun in my arms.
Tess is asleep back at the ranch house.
The moon pales. Then loses face completely
as the sun spears up over the mountains.
Why do I pick this moment
to remember my aunt taking me aside that time
and saying, What I am going to tell you now
you will remember every day of your life?
But that’s all I can remember.
I’ve never been able to trust memory. My own
or anyone else’s. I’d like to know what on earth
I’m doing here in this strange regalia.
It’s my friend’s wheat—this much is true.
And right now, his dog is on point.
Tess is opposed to killing for sport,
or any other reason. Yet not long ago she
threatened to kill me. The dog inches forward.
I stop moving. I can’t see or hear
my breath any longer.
Step by tiny step, the day advances. Suddenly,
the air explodes with birds.
Tess sleeps through it. When she wakes,
October will be over. Guns and talk
of shooting behind us.
The Window
A storm blew in last night and knocked out
the electricity. When I looked
through the window, the trees were translucent.
Bent and covered with rime. A vast calm
lay over the countryside.
I knew better. But at that moment
I felt I’d never in my life made any
false promises, nor committed
so much as one indecent act. My thoughts
were virtuous. Later on that morning,
of course, electricity was restored.
The sun moved from behind the clouds,
melting the hoarfrost.
And things stood as they had before.
Heels
Begin nude, looking for the socks
worn yesterday and maybe
the day before, etc. They’re not
on your feet, but they can’t
have gone far. They’re under the bed!
You take them up and give them
a good shaking to free the dust.
Shaking’s no more than they deserve.
Now run your hand down the limp,
shapeless things. These blue,
brown, black, green, or grey socks.
You feel you could put your arm into one
and it wouldn’t make a particle
of difference. So why not do this
one thing you’re inclined to do?
You draw them on over your fingers
and work them up to the elbow.
You close and open your fists. Then
close them again, and keep them that way.
Now your hands are like heels
that could stamp
on things. Anything.
You’re heading for the door
when a draft of air hits your ankles
and you’re reminded of those wild swans
at Coole, and the wild swans at places
you’ve never heard of, let alone
visited. You understand now
just how far away you are from all that
as you fumble with the closed door.
Then the door opens! You wanted it
to be morning, as expected
after a night’s uneasy sleep.
But stars are overhead, and the moon
reels above dark trees.
You raise your arms and gesture.
A man with socks over his hands
under the night sky.
It’s like, but not like, a dream.
The Phone Booth
She slumps in the booth, weeping
into the phone. Asking a question
or two, and weeping some more.
Her companion, an old fellow in jeans
and denim shirt, stands waiting
his turn to talk, and weep.
She hands him the phone.
For a minute they are together
in the tiny booth, his tears
dropping alongside hers. Then
she goes to lean against the fender
of their sedan. And listens
to him talk about arrangements.
I watch all this fr
om my car.
I don’t have a phone at home, either.
I sit behind the wheel,
smoking, waiting to make
my own arrangements. Pretty soon
he hangs up. Comes out and wipes his face.
They get in the car and sit
with the windows rolled up.
The glass grows steamy as she
leans into him, as he puts
his arm around her shoulders.
The workings of comfort in that cramped, public place.
I take my small change over
to the booth, and step inside.
But leaving the door open, it’s
so close in there. The phone still warm to the touch.
I hate to use a phone
that’s just brought news of death.
But I have to, it being the only phone
for miles, and one that might
listen without taking sides.
I put in coins and wait.
Those people in the car wait too.
He starts the engine then kills it.
Where to? None of us able
to figure it. Not knowing
where the next blow might fall,
or why. The ringing at the other end
stops when she picks it up.
Before I can say two words, the phone
begins to shout, “I told you it’s over!
Finished! You can go
to hell as far as I’m concerned!”
I drop the phone and pass my hand
across my face. I close and open the door.
The couple in the sedan roll
their windows down and
watch, their tears stilled
for a moment in the face of this distraction.
Then they roll their windows up
and sit behind the glass. We
don’t go anywhere for a while.
And then we go.
Cadillacs and Poetry
New snow onto old ice last night. Now,
errand-bound to town, preoccupied with the mudge
in his head, he applied his brakes too fast.
And found himself in a big car out of control,
moving broadside down the road in the immense
stillness of the winter morning. Headed
inexorably for the intersection.
The things that were passing through his mind?