A curious wind blows snow off the trees a branch appears like a coded message I awake dragging a reluctant dream watching the retreat of possibilities an army of afterthought frayed at the collar down on its heals a promise—brittle with time lost yet tinged with a certain sweetness like new honey the color of amber in Chiapas If it is to be art it must have a container a symphonic formulation a hesitation a held breath a joining a crescendo a finale a lingering sadness It must forbear the impossible the unthinkable aunts and uncles eaten by shadow lost cousins mirror back at us Already slipping away whispers corrupt the silence affidavits—what could that mean then by McCarthy and threatened deportation Grandma Jenny who only wanted the world to take care of its poor and hungry then by duck and cover and further ignominies And a world that would blow itself up In a twisted minute These are my thoughts painting the lingering shadows hearing the cry of the coyote on it’s morning walk across the lake it’s dog outline mirrored on the ice It’s solitude a slip of genetics— hunger is not enough—but it is everything he will swallow the moon Still the fish swim at the bottom of the pond where the water remembers how to move The yelp of the coyote later in the night is familiar and personal like eye contact with the gorilla at the zoo In the morning a cardinal lands on the deck flat footed feathers fluted against the chill blood red on the snow flaunt your biretta in this monochrome Eastham, 2014; Provincetown, 2025
Hiding Out