Poem 47: Kinkadean

We are always in dusk
On streets pleasantly cloaked
In a half dark, and a light
buzzing from the windows.
It is not fearful, nor lonely.
Loneliness is what I would expect.
The sun lingering an hour later
in the afternoon. Those canvasses
in that store in St. Augustine,
they were all too obvious for us,
inauthentic. I, too, glow
indistinctly. To the coming night
I present a yellow warmth,
all goodness and homily.

Poem 43: It is the leaves that are yellow, and old

Two paths, I said, diverged

In a wood. A yellow wood,

You’re right. And they are

Roads, but that seems confusing.

In the wood, you walk on paths

Leaves crunch under your feet

If there were cars – if there are

Cars, they take you back to where

You’re escaping from.  But to return

To this intersection, this cross, yes

You look back. I’m on the one less.

The one with less. Well, just being

In the woods, right? What you see

Are the old roads, sometimes with

Stone walls, and there used to be

No woods at all. Someone walked here.

Lots of people, maybe. And they

Are gone. Standing here, come to

Think of it, I do hear cars. How

Can I not? And they pass, and I

Stand here, and I marvel at the noise

That carries through the woods

Such that you can hear it on one path

Or the other.