Look out! my nightmare shouted,
as she crashed across the porch, flailing the shadows with a crutch.
Dark wind blew a storm of dust, or feathers, and lightning

One morning in June above Yosemite Valley, John Muir learned
the “right manners of the wilderness.”

Shadows from the spruce woods slouch down the hill,
the windmill’s crippled shadow
pierces the house, a blue fog spirits

Kicking through woods and fields, I’d spooked several
and once stepped on a coachwhip among gravestones,
at least one garter curled like a bow

The sign itself is shab you need, blue neon half-circling
a curvy silhouette. And rain spilling the gutters
seems the perfect stage effect.

But when I rap harder, that hysterical feint—the flip
to her back, eyes slammed shut, skinny
tongue lolling in the snow.

 

who glimpses
the dead without shuddering?

Confused bear cocked back on a haunch,
artist’s blundering arms frozen toward embrace 

In the living room of the trailer, the father of the woman
I love calls the family into a huddle.
Dinner is over, the charcoal is ash on the grill.

As a barrier against mosquitoes,
I pull an old sheet from the closet
and cross the yard,