Two Poems

Muse, Incognito

You will not find Epiphany
among the trees. The maples,
lifting bony fingers to the sky,
make no revelation; their
black eyes are blank, the dark
scrolls of their hearts, empty.
The wind's voice runs like a skink
through the leaves, upon
the bluff face, unintelligible
as the lichen hieroglyphs which
mark each stone. The moss
is wool, pulled down tight.
Others have sought her here;
their manic laughter echoes
in the woodcock's call. Still,
she will come, now, in this
moment between breaths,
but in no vision, with no voice
beside your own.

 

Mudpuppy

This is a shy and backward
little dragon, drawn from its lair
beneath a smooth, flat stone
amid the slower currents
of a nameless stream;
its tender hide is mottled
brown and black, the claret gills
two plumes of flame
flared in perpetual inhale—
a fire which, but for water,
would soon extinguish.