HARALD, THE AGNOSTIC 
ALE-LOVING OLD SHEPHERD
ENEMY OF THE WHISKY-DRINKING

She never knew one of us from another, so my brothers and I grew up fighting 
Over our mother’s mind
Like sun-colored suitors in a Greek myth. We were willing

“Red as butchered beasts
 Miracle-mongers end;
 Sang the first wound

“Have you any cure,” cried the young sailor
Pulling against the tide,
“Have you any herb or spell to help

In my front yard live three crepe myrtles, crying trees 
We once called them, not the shadiest but soothing
During a break from work in the heat, their cool sweat

Those piers like huge stone feet
Stand in the ebb.
                   Twice a day

Burg, boro, ville, and wood, 
I hate those tiny towns, 
Their obligations. If I needed

When the poet arrived in our city
he was welcomed with storms and floods.
The earth turned to mud and the mud gave way

Moving across the light, on agitated hips,
She hurries away breadcrusts and grapestones 
And glances in mid-talk, as if from fear,

As I walk down NYC I wonder into the ground
Glee a short road across my face
To a sparrow observing from the cool agenda