A man on the edge of the woods
brings in wires through dead leaves and joe-pye weed
on into the steamy interior where I think
there is life. Connection is electric
voiceful sometimes mournful
treeful, sometimes moth on the bulb.
At night, insects around me rub their wings
keeping me warm with three-syllable friction,
the back and forth of darkness.
By day, birds sing through my flow-whispers
their descant sharper and wider than a requiem solo.
Blessed baby Jesus I left you out
in the stable and that’s the way I wanted it.
O Wire Man, yesterday I saw you tight-rope walk
without a parasol in heavy steel-toed boots
on high over the inner road. Balance brings
veins muscle leaves skin and earth into one body
of the most beautiful kind.
The space is heavy, moist evening
sweet air of skunk.