Two Poems

Morning, Redux

 

Another morning in the  obscure,
light  spackling the  clouds  rolling  in,
running before  some  storm.

The  sky flattened like an unstamped envelope.
The  local predators must have been  sleeping  in.
It was early November, songbirds

off on winter hols,  swifts
racketing down  the  chimney.
A lone  walker happened through the  scene,

more  shadow than man, the  sort  Tiepolo
might have finished off with  a brush-
stroke, with  perhaps a splash  of red for a hat.

A fiddlehead lifted  the  burden of new life,
relaxing  like an uncoiled spring.
The  air was still, as if yet had  lost its claim.

 

 

Drift Road

 

Great War  soldiers, scarred, papier-maché
(German?)—some elderly  uncle’s,  perhaps.
In wounded numbers they marched on shoebox trenches,
fields of Ypres lain across the worn  Oriental,

the  dog rolling  over the  lines like a tank.
I traded the doughboys to a neighbor boy
and  was taken by the  ear to repatriate
the  P.O.W.’s—through the  schoolyard’s

dank grass, in by the  kitchen door.
Weeks later  the  door  stood unlocked,
table  littered with  crumbs, New Bedford paper
cradling a juice glass, two drops  of blood  on the  front page.

I climbed the  stairs,  calling his name.
No one was there.  No one was there again.

 

 

 

WILLIAM LOGAN’s latest book of poetry, Rift of Light, was published in the fall of 2017.

 

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