WOLF BETWEEN THE TREES His wife, his wife, his daughter, his daughter, his granddaughter, her brother, knelt in a circle in huckleberry woods, digging with fingers, under pine needles, a small hole in which to place smoking sweetgrass, optic moisture, & by the grandson, his grandfather's ashes, gray Douglas Woolf, fine at last, poured from expensive plastic bag removed from official metal box, taken from out a brown grocery bag, his usual appertenance. . Fifty steps from here he wrote accurate prose in his favourite ramshackle cabin, juncos rescued from the cat & buried under bushes, small daughters didnt know what they were rehearsing, now his favourite knitted cap has a rock in it, thrown far as can be into the woods as they call them back in New England where few people came to know he was from, gone back there as well as here, wouldnt you say? . Now the women have a picnic, sitting close as they can to the wolf in the woods, huckleberry cider, jack cheese, bean & chile spread, nothing from Europe, songs from mountain folk, holed up in dark city, sitting firm on clear prose, tears in all their eyes, smiles on their faces, smoke from the sweetgrass, no airliners in the sky, no mote in that eye. Below Nine Mile Creek, in Wallace, Idaho it is 99 degrees. An old man in a see-through hat leaned on the wall outside a bar. I said when does it warm up? He replied moving nothing but his toothpick, wait till next winter. . Doug will be up there next winter, no romance, no spooks, meaning no, he will not be writing a story, that is over. If you want to visit, use your fingers, open a book, dig.
|The East Village Poetry Web