Perseids Peaks

Parked on the edge of the Costco lot past midnight

under the hazy heaven of city lights and moon,

you point out the one star bright enough to see

and it is a planet.  One meteor streaks beyond neon.

We lean back on the windshield and drink soda,

like students in the cheap seats we wait for the

celestial shower to show what mid-August brings,

orbiting dust. We hold hands in astrological hush.

A Jet Blue heads for the airport while another

makes a steep ascent. Our vigil is spontaneous

otherwise we would be on some bluff miles

beyond the suburb. We have the radio and blues.

Trucks travel the interstate oblivious to the stars

as well as our car solitary in this vast black field.

We imagine we ride a raft over the ragged edge

of the world. We fall into a sky dizzy with breath.

Shadows move over us as a helicopter patrols

alleys and backyards. One streak explodes to six.

I squeeze you in my arms and hum satisfaction

as dawn pulls us back to earth and another day.

(After Poem of the Day: August 12 in the Nebraska

Sand Hills Watching the Perseids Meteor Shower

By Twyla Hansen) 

Noon

In hot

heft of brilliance

on a billowing blue lawn,

anesthetized by subtle breeze

we lunch.

View through Blinds

Long haired youth

strolls down the walk

in morning dew-light

He sports only nylon

basketball shorts

and his smart phone.

So much hair

his face is hidden.

Lean like an animal

in healthy wilderness,

he steps one white leg

after the other.

Ripples in the small

of his back as his

quadratus lumborum

flexes, he steps up

to the porch and in

the door, forever again.

Tough Tense Future

Full of same; feel of same, glory and good

Swirls of soft water, autumn and this blue feather,

I give you hunger. You give me savory food.

Spring, summer, one or the other, I did what I could.

I worked through years of bad to worse weather,

What we gave and got was well understood.

Real as rain, air and sky the same twist of road,

I walk in dust and mud to get us back together.

Your friends go out of their way to stay rude.

Fall and refrain, limp almost lame, broken toed,

Weeds flower in liquid particles and scatter.

Pain and passion, real or the same collude.

Autumn will be winter, same old same, wood

Ricks and racks like drunken steps stagger

Along the hem of our pasture, slippy fluid.

Same is winter flocks and flurries. Hot brewed

You draft ducks and bats, boil lace and leather.

Forget I said what I want to do. I’ll help load.

(A reflection on the Poem of the Day for August 9, 2017:

Not Pastoral Enough, By Veronica Forrest-Thompson

 homage to William Empson)