David Wolf


Fourmi

I’m getting older,
far from nothing and 
that’s cool, a bit cool, 
as I turn up my collar
amid some momentary 
abstruseness too early, 
just ask wisdom
trailing out front 
of the shadow of the act,
treading river’s song 
in ignorance, 
in all known darkness,
dismiss me.
Fine. I’ll try 
to wake gladly 
to the world’s reduction,
face the speakers
pushing on this heart’s 
fading work,  
as the listing pines 
promise no lies,
no song,
gentle as the year 
coming ten thousand years on.
Love, ticking, 
no moaning, 
to be read
beneath these words
tuning up another 
town full of shrapnel,
yeah, right, scented, stop.
Yes, what’s 
the other tune?
Unknowing as 
the ale of the dead, 
the well-read
open to rising 
out of the brown earth
that entails
the expansive collage 
of fear,
creatures suffering glazed 
in the old pan,
soul’s kiss of grist,
of kindly given mysteries
reflecting on the finish
of spring’s familiar 
and tasty acts of light.
Lead me 
out of the noise and
and back into the noise,
but first let’s review
what sides doubt refuses
to take,
the market’s 
oracular crawl,
mocking the ancients 
striding about
in the latest robes,
back-slapping each other’s 
paradoxes.
It is apparent. 
I’ll continue 
to piece together 
something sure,
some narrow 
specialization bequeathed
by a million dreaming experts
raining down 
like lilac tumbleweeds, 
sages of the lonely earth,
what more can I add?
A dying bouquet 
of selfhood?
I’ll keep seeking the central 
motif of the innumerable, 
forget it. 
Mother of my feelings,
relieve me 
of my dusty symptoms,
hawk me a fresh start.


     *


Some late summer rain
showering city-haze dust 	
from yellowing leaves,
I suppose— 
suchness needs a nap.
Humid afternoon—
lone monarch, 
fluttering low 
in long pine-shadow.
Seconds tick away,
a tick comes back 
for seconds and 
this time: 
bye for good.
September unfurling—
sunflowers flashing
in the afternoon wind,
apples and honey;
look out for more firepower.
Shredded spider web.
Rush hour traffic jam —
drifting across my windshield: 
downtown thistledown.
Nothing new there, 
here, just a reminder 
to keep the old mind
open.
OK, OK, OK, 
OK, OK, OK, OK,
OK. O!
Chipmunk sniffing
a fallen walnut, 
darting off—
too big of a nut to crack.
Archipelago of geese 
flying south, semi-forming
the V-sign we seek.
Coming soon enough 
the first hard frost— 
please, a light one first, 
just asking.
A thought came to me.
It was not an autumn thought.
Though it was autumn,
thought rotting through 
me, not autumn-wrought 
sodden thought—
hardy autumn rot,
though hardly, really,
who are we kidding, 
mind thought.
Love, myth, 
brain-flare, bog.
“Moon, setting in the west,
thanks for last night’s eclipse.”
“It was nothing.”
Wild turkey 
on the river sandbar—
the bird 
not the booze;
high school’s done.
Dear ill lumberjack,
Hope you are felling better.
Take care, 
Not a Tree.
Codeine suppression—
sleep so I can 
go to work tomorrow, 
coughing.
Lost my credit card then found 
my lost credit card. Missing, then, 
not lost. You 
destabilize then ask 
why it’s all so, so 
unstable? Good one.
My nails need clipping.
How about some paper,
a pencil, natural light,
write a short poem?
Layoffs first,
then surprise! 
Surpluses pop up, 
wow!
Welcome to the club.
A chill 
once more:
in the diminishing light,
fleeting wisdom reigns.
Popcorn radical
dapper equestrian 
husk.
Sharply cold 
morning, cold as
this aster petal.
Burn ban in effect statewide—
the oak tree flames 
in place.
Schlocky bright leaf,
there’s no such thing as you, kid,
keep doing your thing.
Still life: 
my neighbor’s porch—
scarecrow, pumpkin, sleeping cat.
The cat’s name is Alfred.
No. I don’t think so.
I could be wrong, yes, 
but still.
Traffic jam on the bridge.
Look up river:
blue heron wisp wading.
Lien’s daybed, 
nasal, spent effigy 
of magic,
pre-mixed gadabout.
Pumpkin’s carved 
and lit on the eve 
of All Saints’ Day—
“Some kugel?” 
“Sure.”
What time is the thing?
You know, 
the thing that’s tonight.
The thing! Remember?
Singularity? Individuality?
Fictionality? The sun’s gone away,
not yet.
Some branches bare now,
some full red, 
orange, yellow,
some still 
leafy green.
Avoiding cliché—
light cascading 
through my sneeze,
tears falling 
like elves.
Stood in the aviary,
reading my tweets aloud—
Some racket!
My Swiss Army Knife
is folded up 
and ready
for neutral action.
Write something
each day? 
No, it doesn’t work 
that way.
Life says “hush” 
at times.
Leaf blower, shut up,
fuming brute, 
overkiller
of this still morning.
The neighbor’s car alarm
woke me 
ahead of my clock,
out of dreamed star-snow.
Which means, which means, which
means I can’t say, 
don’t know, 
no, whatever, 
silence
flowing, flowing—
humankind’s flaming stream—
from bloodshed to 
bloodshed to . . .
the days carry on,
carry us on, 
routines, smiles,
nagging, nagging hope.
This winter had to come, 
this snow, wet, thick
drenched white “blanket,”
a sopping blanket,
great memories.
Down in the valley— 
the train whistle blows 
a nameless mood 
up my way.
I’ve been asked
to share 
my thanks publicly,
profoundly, or else. 
Low clouds wrangle,
my out-of-office reply
awaits its mission.
Need to bookmark 
the book 
I’m currently reading—
cold, gray, bells chiming,
bright future approaching,
land of 
opportunity.
Bullets abound.
Trimmed the old 
Christmas tree—
three-years old— 
old under capitalism.
Nightfall sang to me:
“Sang?” 
More of a croak.
Meeting’s coming up—
no docket full of posies—
drone on, thorn weeds, skulls.
“Another cookie?”
“No, I’m good, 
one is enough.”
Truth for the belly, 
lie of the tongue.
Headed to the pub
for dinner, ale, ye olde
replications.
Years ago,
in the Scottish wind—
my mother 
at St. Andrews
barred from the clubhouse.
The server brought our stout, 
too warm.
T-shirt said:
“Try one now, ice cold.”
Memories present . . .
memories, present 
presence, open mind’s presents?
When I was young
I dreamed of presents.
The dream of presence 
floated later.
Presenting the next poem
about absence . . .
wait for it, 
wait for it, wait . . .
settling nothing.
Vaporous torpor—
vacuous stupor, jingling 
all the way.
Christmas lights 
shimmering through 
my rain-streaked windows.
“What detergent did you use?”
my wife asks, 
dreaming.
Your gleanings 
slip free,
briny peelings, anyway
forget it all, expanse.
Constructions shimmy,
funny, no?
Say more, 
keep humming,
bright morn, bright quiet,
caress of noon’s 
low-seared silence.
Light snow
blowing through—
a few flakes 
on my shoe, gone.
Your hurry, flurries?

 
     *


The flowers found it hard 
to love the buildings.
The concrete shadows, 
while predictable, 
could not be trusted.
Still, talent jumped forth
in living color: 
purples, yellows, 
violet of course.
It is difficult to 
cuddle up with all 
your thoughts
until the hour 
of mercy or no mercy
scrapes the walls 
of the heart
like a bag of 
avocado oil potato chips 
munched on 
by the mouth beside you
in the minutes before 
your lunch order arrives.
Would you 
rather be doing 
something else 
just now?
That’s OK.
I mean, who doesn’t 
want the troops 
to come home?
They should come home
and the powerful 
should just go out
and whack some mushrooms 
with their walking sticks
in the humid dawn
like our 
dragon-fearing 
ancestors of old.
The hard and soft piano 
of poetry
will not make 
anything come true
except the hardness
and softness 
of the piano’s poetry.
Even then, nothing 
is certain.
The space you’re in 
is like a hotel: 
temporary home to joy, 
heartbreak, jealousy, 
dead fashion.
The truth is the wealth 
I’ve had to tolerate
can’t cherish 
the sweet grace 
of light in the grass.
If you put 
the right knives on 
the table
for the meat you plan 
to serve, the entire economy 
of phantom production
will respond 
with record growth
and reduced inspiration.
Don’t you just love the music
you can’t hear right now?
Be a cactus.
You look like a cactus
so it’s not a stretch.
I mean that as a compliment
because I love most cactuses.
I am plural.
Just look at the night.
You are plural too.
Silence asks
for a moment of calm
unlike science.
And that’s 
probably good for us all.
The clouds 
keep coming and going,
like the light,
even when your 
shirt collar is lit,
with formality.
The funny thing is,
so much is funny,
except if you’re a snail,
for we can only assume
that a vast majority 
of creatures
miss out on humor.
Isn’t that sad?
At least they don’t 
have to worry
about ad copy and 
opera profits.
Studies show 
that red swimsuits
exude wealth, 
caution, 
a recent history of ambition,
and dampness 
when wet.
I don’t know
any other way to put this.
It’s like trying to 
wade across the lagoon
without looking clumsy.
Talk about a rat race.
To think that I 
jumped right in
when I was young
and seeking what was steady, 
exciting, bouncy, 
and fun.
My favorite mountain
remains a craggy touchstone
in my imagination.
Who are we?
Nothingness darkens 
like the trees
still hanging out 
in my childhood neighborhood
long before and after me.
Circus. Laughter. Wine. Tomorrow.
I am waiting for 
the sea to rush in.
It will sound like applause 
because
tonight it’s 
slaphappy and marvelous 
like love’s joy 
coming to rest 
with a promise to rally.

David Wolf is the author of six collections of poetry, Open Season, The Moment Forever, Sablier I, Sablier II, Visions (with artist David Richmond), and Weir (a micro-chapbook from Origami Poems Project). His work has appeared in numerous literary magazines and journals, most recently BlazeVOX, dadakuku, E·ratio, Indefinite Space, Lotus-eater Magazine, and Otoliths. He is a professor emeritus of English at Simpson College and serves as the literary editor for Janus Head: Journal of Interdisciplinary Studies in Literature, Continental Philosophy, Phenomenological Psychology, and the Arts.

 
 

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