Two Poems

Dusk

The sun, the science people say,
is not the perfect star to foster life.
Many worlds with better suns
however fail to prosper.
Faulty is the nest that suits us.
We bloom despite our home;
children know the truth of this.

In June I'll write more cheerful crap.
The sky is indigo,
short of black a shade or two
but moving that direction.
I'm not displeased.

Let others caper in that defective light.
I'll embrace the dark.
Let contentment dissipate.
Let the sky, the street, the air
be black.

 

Waiting for the Dogs

Look at this woman's hand. Hold it to the light.
Grooves on the palm, hair on the back
outlines of arteries, freckles, moles.
Don't worry about her.

Dawn flickers on wings of Hera Buckmoths.
Crows beckon to their children.
Sweet-smelling compost
blends with sticks and pebbles.
Dew on webs sparkle
in the air between ferns.

A dozen sparrows seek what life
the sun has driven under stones.
Muzzles taste the moist perfume
that lingers from a shower overnight.

The search-and-rescue dogs have found her.
Sunlight warms her bruised complexion.
They dig through the jumble
and sniff and lick her cheek.