Two Poems

Night World

 

The barbed-wire vines
knot the azaleas
in the DMZ

of the border yard.
Everywhere I find
the sign of signs:

the abandoned wreck
of a cardinal’s nest,
over-mortgaged,

or under water;
the snout divots
of armadillos,

shy, unregistered aliens.
The world’s another
world at night,

where the dream-scatter
of day lunks about,
preparing, preparing

for nothing at all.

 

 

 

The Gentle Soul

A gentle air impelling her keel, so that in the surrounding serenity her three tall tapering masts mildly waved to that languid breeze, as three mild palms on a plain.                                        Moby-Dick, chapter 59

 

He used his jeans as an ashtray,
spun philosophies on airy nothings,

slept with a prostitute and a thirteen-year-old.
It was the sixties, we liked to say,

long after it was the sixties.
What moved flesh and what spirit,

already languishing in the purity of decay?
The Oakland tidal flats

are now overlooked by ghosts of dot-com
companies that did not survive the crash.

The eighties. The nineties.
The decades fell like promises made to be broken.

 

 

William Logan‘s new book, Rift of Light, will be published by Penguin in the fall.

Issue #65 December 2016
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