afternoon light

fades from

the Menominee

where this

water bug



over the glassy



of the river;

a needle



of silver-speckled




as lovers,


a narrow pocket

into which

I slip


the ruins

of another




The Nest (Or, a Father Considers the Odds of Raising Successful Small-Mouth Bass Offspring)

That afternoon at the cabin

we sat by the river

after I had cut up those small trees

that you dropped at my feet with the tractor –

(an offering, a challenge,

one that I tore through haphazardly with the new chainsaw,

black and yellow like a drunken, terrible bumblebee).

It was quiet after all that noise,

the dog (our fourth) now gone, our offspring absent-

(one washing other people’s dishes in dirty water for $7.75 an hour,

one in the throes of new love, thrashing in the shallows, and then

one that has swum out to her own sea)

so we sat without them

on cheap and dirty plastic chairs

that had sat outside all winter

and swatted at mosquitoes,

talking a little but mostly just

watching the male bass

swim back and forth around its nest,

guarding the 20,000 – 

give or take a few hundred –

eggs ditched by the female – leaving him

to patrol the nest alone, watching for

panfish looking to gorge on eggs coming in from the left

while he is preoccupied with crayfish coming in from the right –

there are always more predators.

(Five bass fry will live long enough to grow ten inches long;

it’s better that the father not consider these odds,

yet, how can he not?)

A muskrat broke the perimeter –

rat-tail moving side to side like a pink snake, but

the bass didn’t break patrol.

A father knows, or thinks he knows, what is a threat.

Really, I had almost certainly just waded right through the nest

through the muck and rocks and branches

(a sweaty, mosquito-repellent covered Godzilla

sending translucent globes helplessly into the current).

But we kept watching the bass,

circling his trampled nest while the sun

slowly arced to the west, and north,

the surface of the river sparkling like

glass from a broken mirror.

Behind us, up the hill,

no one tended the fire;

and though it was light, still, for so long,

in that week leading up to the solstice,

it was too late for us

to go home.


Crivitz Piggly Wiggly Philosophy

It’s a Thursday in May after five

when I swing into the Piggly Wiggly with two bikes

on the back of my SUV, and the dog inside;

The woman slicing my deli ham

struggles with the wrapper on the summer sausage, limps like

her hip is bad, too; she paces, trapped behind the glass cage;

When I check out, another woman

bagging my groceries eyes me and when I say “Everything in paper except for

the cold stuff,” she rephrases:

“Cold stuff in plastic, everything else in paper,”

which is what I said, but in reverse, and she seems disapproving, so then I hedge –

“Well, whatever makes sense.”

And she says “All right, as much as anything

makes sense any more” which seems a bit dark but also somehow

appropriate, and then referring to my copy of Vanity Fair

tells the checkout girl that the big Royal Wedding

is this Saturday and that the bride is 36 and who even knows if she can HAVE

kids, she’s been married before you know;

The checkout girl who is maybe mid-thirties

yawns and asks me if I know that I selected some organic bananas, I say yes,

I want them tomorrow and they were the only ripe ones,

and then she also clucks disapprovingly, either sorry

that they did not have non-organic ripe bananas to offer me or maybe sorry

that I am the type of person who cannot wait for bananas to ripen;

Outside the old man with a service dog

who looks like a floor mop and would do a credible job at it

asks me where I’m from, and I say where,

and he says that traffic in Green Bay

is terrible, he knows because he goes to church down there every Sunday,

taking his life in his hands, practically,

I say “Ah, the roundabouts,” knowingly, but he says no,

the drivers down there are terrible tailgaters, all in a hurry, and for what?

And peering in as I put away the iced tea and bottles of water

asks me what kind of dog I have, growling in the back seat

at his mop, and I say, and add,”He’s not really friendly,” and then

he too is disappointed, and calls to the friendly dog Brice or Bryce

and they amble off into the spring green grass, where

Bryce or Brice dutifully poops; but after the man goes to find a baggie,

he can’t find where the tiny poop is and when I leave

he is still walking in a circle, searching for the pile. But what I

am thinking about is how I’ve disappointed them all, and the way the woman

put my turnovers at the bottom of the paper bag and said,

“as much as anything makes sense anymore,” maybe referring to

lava breaking through the crust of the earth or the president of the USA

paying hush money to a woman they call Stormy,

or more likely something to do with her children, who don’t call,

or Piggly Wiggly’s schedule for the weekend,

rather than heroin leaving a wide path of destruction across the American cornfields,

and meanwhile I, privileged and having all advantages,

unfairly, undeservedly, drive with a dog and bikes

and cheese and chips to a place where the sun makes a wide and slow arc over the river,

shooting sunlight like glass marbles down the its path

and the sky turns the clouds pink, lavender, yellow, by turn

and a silver fish flashes in the shallows and then darts like guilt into the deep

and I turn to ascend the stairs, going up, and up, and up.

Ask For Me Tomorrow And You Shall Find Me a Grave Man!

So Mercutio cried – and before and since and ever,

the years start over in darkness, the face of the earth turned away from the sun;

The calendar is a ragged thread of a winter sweater

snagged on a fencepost nail; it’s a ball of yarn spooling out into the future,

bouncing across the kempt lawn of the universe into the weeds;

This year ahead is a cemetery laid at our feet,

month comes after month and we stumble on soft, worn tombstones

that mark the years since birth, since death;

the longer we live, the more days are so marked, the more tombstones meet our shins;

Every year, unknowing, we pass over the anniversary

of the day of our death, if we have any luck at all.

But this May day the Earth’s sunlit face

is turned like a leaf toward the sun; it’s tilted on its axis like an actress to the glass,

catching the better light from eight minutes ago, when I was someone else;

When no one is looking, the sunlight transforms –

bright green shoots, spiderwebs, reflections on the long glittering spine of river;

the Earth is holding up things that cast long, dark shadows.

Towering pines along the overgrown trail

wear bright orange slashes like beauty pageant sashes across their trunks –

they will likewise be changed –

bunk beds, books, toilet paper; everything on its way

from this thing to another – atoms rearrange in fire, in fusion, in decay.

I will leave these woods and face this oncoming twilight,

I will wash away the dust and ticks and leaves, I will stand naked as the day I was born,

and still I won’t see any bright orange slash across this body of mine,

this vessel that’s been hollowed out, stolen from, broken and healed,

bled and bound, this package that’s carried my soul

from riverbank to city to woods, marking my time,

finally pushing a tombstone like a sharp tooth

into the grass green mouth of the world,

unable to speak.

Night on Shakey Lakes, -17°F

Tonight we sleep

above the ice,

(cocooned like mousies in sleeping bags)

under an impossible number of January stars,

(brilliant like only winter stars can be, Orion hunting alone)

over the lake, and the fish in the lake,

(swimming slowly in the iced water capped by sixteen inches of ice)

in this bitter cold,

(as I burrow further and further into my nest)

through this lonely watch of night,

(three decades in, we breathe across the aisle, untangled)

inside my dreams the lake is a giant, shifty and cross, too much river in its belly,

(the ice creaks and rumbles and groans and cracks and growls)

beyond this shelter the sun’s first rays slide over the ice,

(the bright silver sliver of moon slipping like a minnow behind the bare tree line)

in this small space, it’s a false darkness,

(we’ve blocked the sunrise, and curious neighbors)

below me, though, the holes drilled yesterday to catch the fish in the belly of the lake

(tempted, or not, by the dancing bait)

catch instead the light from the sunrise

that I leave for you

as I drive



Either it comes to you

Or you go to it; nevertheless

You meet.

Highway 139 weaves southward

after your day of skiing;

a newly teenaged girl watches a screen in the back,

playing a movie meant for her younger self –

the older brother left behind at the friends’ cabin,

the eldest sister in a faraway city – the husband, somewhere

out on thinning ice; you the mother drive,

guitars over the radio, melancholy.

Pines along the road lined up as though to march,

perfectly still in parallel rows –

their branches just holding the light they’ve gathered,

protecting it from the flood of darkness

creeping ever upward;

They’ve picked up all the dropped bits

of stray light this afternoon and it drips

from their frayed fingertips into the shadowed evening that is

pooling around their thick ankles, knees, thighs;

(in the field across the wet highway

half a silo stands in the melting snow,

its top half lit up by the failing sun –

a cigarette half smoked, throwing

light like ash back into the field

without a second thought.)

In those pines

the bundles of light writhe and shift

and rise into the very top of the earth-bound trees

that can’t hold on, that won’t let go until they must

And then finally

without any cry at all they release

the light into a pale blue twilight,

branches deepening into purple and finally it’s only

Strands of wispy white cloud

combed lightly across the broad sky –

as a child after a long day and a bath,

as a man at the dinner table, smoothing his hair while he reads the paper,

as a woman in a casket, only now still –

The light will come around again

the next morning, and the next, it will again be gathered,

and settled around the trunks of the pines –

it will reach to be picked up,

and piece by piece it will be so,

by different pines,

only to be sent into the same dimming



Black Horses Wet

And shining in the green field

As though they are just-painted models

In someone’s miniature world,

Set just



We fly down 577 while

Sun and rain leapfrog over each other,

Empty houses, fallow fields,

A woman pulling weeds

In a rectangular patch

Reclaimed from the wild,

Destined for the wild

In 40 years

Will I believe, bent and addled, alone and lost

that we stood healthy and hale

This mid-summer’s day on the golf course

While our handsome men teed off,

Tall and strong,

Our children swam, beautiful and shining

Like mythical Greeks

That we bantered and swore at our terrible shots,

Cheered the unbelievable putts, giving high fives,

Flirting because we were not yet old and

Could still do with possibility, secure

In our marriages, the present that was

Ripped wide open for us to take

Will I believe, contained to a tiny room with peeling paint

That money flowed like a river

Without noticing it,

Wine and dog food, iced tea and t-shirts,

Flip flops, coffee, huge boxes of frozen hamburgers

Golf carts and scotch, sweet corn, tenderloin,

Gas and books from the airport

That the river ran clear,

Herons flapping at the shore as in Yeats’ day,

That porcupines bent the trees, bald eagles

Sewed an invisible thread from pine to pine to unlucky fish to shore

That once a fawn swam in front of my kayak to the opposite shore

While white water lilies smelling of honey

Spread pedaled constellations across the surface of the water

That we lived in peace?

Will I touch my white hair,

Will I take Eliot’s peach and descend his stair,

Leaning on a cane, and say “my stars!”

Will I see that I was blessed beyond reason, beyond what I was due,

That He let me carry on this life without interference while

A spinneret of belief stretched from the stars to my hand,

Enough to hold me but not prevent me

From tangling with the world.

Will I pull a shawl around my shoulders and

Remember how I sat by the fire and listened

To the soporific rain that ended the game on the 8th hole,

Rain after a drought like crazy grace, like baptism, like

Freedom with abandon, like an invitation from the universe

To a party that’s been going on all along, but you didn’t know

Will I adjust my glasses with arthritic hands and

Remember this life

Think just how fast it has all gone,

That I have just been alive for a breath,

The time it takes to awaken and think your first thought,

And about to go into Dylan’s good night,

Or will the intervening years

Reap pain and loss from seeds earlier sown

And will I say

I can’t recall that

I can’t recall that at all.

Night Picnic, Wallace, MI


Driving toward the river in the new autumn dark,

(carload of cheese and bread and plans, clean towels and swimsuits

that won’t be used, a guitar, a bike, assumptions and wine)

Winking lights ahead cast a curious spell on my watchful eyes,

Blinking from what I daylight know to be the country cemetery;

Solar lights, from dozens if not hundreds of graves,

Shine like Christmas and aim at the stars,

Guiding the way for a midnight picnic for the dead:

They spread tattered blankets in the grass,

Crossing bony femurs like unlit cigarettes and regrets,

They, the dead, hold chipped china cups of nothing, or less,

In the indifferent moonlight,

Remembering the ordinary;

Driving to work, singing along to the Beatles,

setting the table with turkey, potatoes, things unsaid,

feeling the wafer stick to the roofs of their mouths like doubt,

being tangled in sheets in love, in childbirth, in old age,

feeling their children’s heads rest against their shoulders (warm, alive)

while the fireworks burst above;

They watch the cars come over the hill,

Headlights casting arrogant, sure light on the cracked road,

Taillights fading to black;

While the deer stand in the ditches outside the oval of light,

While unseen cells stretch and bully, monopolize conversations and multiply,

While smokestacks exhale thin white smoke that ribbons dismissively across the sky,

While keys drop to the sticky floor and church bells chime;

And so they, the picnicking dead ,shove over, sighing, and leaving room,

While the great round earth pulls its black cape around to the other side.