Does anyone not dream of heaven? After the quarrel, he wishes his own could land at his feet. He’s on foot. As he passes the round Shaker barn on Route 7, On an April afternoon of what’s called unseasonable heat, His eyes alight on two ravens, crisp contours obscured By the asphalt’s shimmer. They gorge on a flattened hare, Winter pallor vanished but for some streaks in the clotted fur.… More »
A grotesquerie for so long we mostly ignored it: Illuminated mammoth Santa atop The QuikStop’s roof, presiding over pumps That gleamed and gushed in the tarmac lot below it. Out back, with pumps of their own, the muttering diesels. And we, for the most part ordinary folks, Took things for granted: the idling semis’ smoke, The fuel that streamed into our tanks, above all Our livelihoods. We stepped indoors to talk With friends, drank coffee, read…… More »
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