A Path Between Houses

Where is the dwelling1 place of light？
And where is the house of darkness？

Go about； walk the limits of the land.

Do you know a path between them？

Job 38：19-20

The enigma2 of August.

Season of dust and teenage arson3.

The nightly whine4 of pickup5 trucks

bouncing through the sumac

beneath the Co-Operative power lines，

country western booming from woofers

carved into the doors. A trace of smoke

when the wins shifts，

spun6 gravel7 rattling8 the fenders of cars，

the groan9 of clutch and transaxle，

pickup trucks， arriving at a friction10 point，

gunning from nowhere to nowhere.

The duets begin. A compact disc，

a single line of muted trumpet11，

plays against the sirens

pursuing the smoke of grass fires.

I love a painter. On a new canvas，

she paints the neighbor's field.

She paints it without trees，

and paints the field beyond the field，

the field that has no trees，

and the upturned Jesus boat，

made into a planter，

For God so loved the world. . .

a citation12 from John， chapter and verse，

splattered across the bow

the boat spills roses into the weeds.

What does the stray dog know，

after a taste of what is holy？

The sun pulls her shadow toward me，

an undulant shape that shelters the grass，

an unaimed thing.

In the gray house， the tiny house，

in '52 there was a fire. The old woman，

drunk and smoking cigarettes， fell asleep.

The winter of the blizzard13 and her son

Not coming home from the Yalu.

There are times I still smell smoke.

There are days I know she set the fire

and why.

Last night， lightning to the south.

Here， nothing， though along the river

the wind upends a willow14，

a gorgon15 of leaves and bottom-up clod

browning in the afternoon sun.

In the museum we dispute

the poet's epiphany call

white light or more warmth？

And what is the Greek word for the flesh，

and the body apart from the spirit，

meaning even the body opposed to the spirit？

I do not know this word.

Dante claims there are pools of fire

in the middle regions of hell，

but the lowest circles are lakes of ice，

offering the hope our greatest sins

aren't the passions but indifference16.

And the willow grew for years

With no real hold upon the ground.

How the accident occurred

and how the sky got dark：

Six miles from my house，

a drunk leaves the Holiday Inn

spins on 104 and smacks17 a utility pole.

The power line sparks

across the hood18 of his Ford19

and illuminates20 the crazed spider web

of the windshield. His bloody21 tongue burns

with a slurry gospel. Around me，

the lights go down，

the way death is described

as armor crashing to the ground，

the soul having already departed

for another place. Was it his body I heard

leaning against the horn，

the body's final song， before the body

slumped22 sideways in the seat？

When I was a child，

I would wake at night

and imagine a field of asteroids24， rolling

across the walls of my room.

In fact， I've seen them，

like the last herd25 of buffalo26，

grazing against the background of fixed27 stars.

Plate 420 shows the asteroid23 433 Eros，

the bright point of light， as it closes its approach

to light. I loose myself in Cygnus，

ancient kamikaze swan，

rising or ping to earth，

Draco， snarling28 at the polestar，

and Pegasus， stone horse of the gods，

ecstatic， looking one last time at home.

August and the enigma it is.

Days when I move in crabbed29 circles，

nights when I walk with Jesus through the fields.

What finally stands between us

and the world of flying things？

Mobbed by jays， the Cooper's hawk30

drops the dead bird. It tumbles

beneath the cedar31 tree，

tiny acrobat32 of death，

a dead bird released

in a failed act of atonement.

A nest of wasps33 buzzing beneath the shingles34，

flickers35 drilling the cottonwood，

jays， sparrows， the insistent36 wrens37，

the language of birds， heads cocked，

staring the moon-eyed through the air.

Sedge， asters， and fleabane，

red tins of gasoline and glowing cigarettes，

the midnight voice of a fourteen-year-old girl

wailing38 the word blue from the pickup's open doors，

illuminated39 by the dome40 light，

the sulphurous rasp of another struck match，

and foxglove， goldenrod and chicory，

the dry flowers of late summer，

an exhaustion41 I no longer look at.

Time passes. The authorities

gather the wreckage42， the whirr

of cicadas， and light dis百度竞价推广bles the sky.

A wind shift， and the Cedar Creek43 fire

snaps the backfire line

and roars through the cemetery44.

In the morning，

I walk a path between houses.

I cross to the water

and circle again， the redwings

forcing me back from the marsh45.

Smoke rises from a fire

still smoldering46 along the power lines，

flaring47 and exhausting itself

in the shape of something lost.

Grass fires， fires through the scrub

of the clear-cut， fires in the pulpwood，

cemetery fires，

the powder of ash still untracked

beneath the enormous trees，

fires that explode the seed cones48

on the pines， the smoke of set fires

and every good intention gone wrong，

scorching49 the monuments

above the graves of the dead.