Two Poems

Autumn Takes Its Rifle for a Walk

The coliseum, agape—miles of silent,

stoic rock, a half-frozen bog.

The dead end trails swindle their followers

of their leaves—a gravel circus.

Grey stripes, and brown. Air and dirt—

an ancient, ugly rivalry.

A prop plane bobs along the remains

of last night, and still can't find its way back.

The wind rasps a cheer, waves

a union flag, is quickly shushed.

Mobs of moose march in threes along the road,

draped in shawls woven from dead leaves.

The first and last carry an orange hat,

sodden and dripping, between their heavy jaws.

Unanimous, they veer right,

vanish into the hydro pass.

The season of downsizing, of strategy, of resistance.

Gorged on vitamins, they are organized, then vengeful.

The brittle clouds rattle, the bareheaded

month shivers, and we haven't yet begun to grieve.

Bounty

The ground rattles and the moon drops,

shaken, and rests at the edge of my yard.

A little too close, too round

but bright enough, and

there is much to unearth

before the monsoons.

The phone calls made too late,

the hospital rooms left unentered,

the secrets nudged free and sent

rolling down the hill.

The banjo strings I used

to tether them together.

Astride my dull shadow

is a telescope, trained

on the crest of that ridge,

the one best for viewing the sunsets

that cure all forms of blindness.

My shovel jolts against rock,

and I renounce the faith

I have neither found,

nor yet inspired.

The moon heaves itself back up

and the foxes sharpen

their jagged little eyes.

Inside, the stove is out,

the phone won't stop ringing,

and a man hands me a warrant.

He unsheathes an examining table,

and flaunts its chrome stirrups

like a bounty hunter.