We have come to the Whitney
our pasts inside us silent
like the dogwood flower

A tableau of sculptures
march the veranda,
some small and assertive,
some large and lethargic
all migrants, ex-captives

the clank of their chains
still shuffles the High Line
one foot fear, one foot courage
one step fear, one step courage
they join in assembly
they tell of their bondage

One figure, an ape of a figure
big African lips,
on his shoulder a bindle
not of clothes or belongings
but of empty food cans

I remember when father
lived in our car
lived out of cans
he too, emancipated

the Chrysler Lebaron
we prayed would redeem us
wood panels, chrome hubcaps,
digital clock, smooth leather seats

We bought the old place
for it’s reach to the woods
and it’s true…

one step from the door
and on to the trail that winds through the waiting aspen

is to enter the place
where the boundary awaits
where the rusted sign says
“please latch the gate” …
and hear the land speak
of unfinished days.

There’s a corner-tree there
back deep in the woods;
a spruce, near eight feet around
and girded by strands of forgotten barbed wire.

On the day
that the rancher and his boy
built this fence together
did he stand and look across

and loving his son
with each beat of his chest

know that this day

this sweet golden day

this bright manly day

what we do with our days

is like the clear river ?

—

If all of the metal

were melted down

in this foothills town

all the rails

with their whispers

of longed-for arrivals

all the nails

holding our homes straight upright

all the girders and trusses

with their hard love for safety

all our fence, all our fears

standing sentry at night.

The blood moon arises

the seeing stars know

the sleeping town murmurs

of snow.

—

There’s a band of thin light

at the curve of the world

reaching into the forest,

flowing over the sage

rising with the still blue morning,

bringing the day’s

portion of earthly grace.

You may

lie here

for only a moment,

rest only as long,

to be living again.

You can

get there

only by running,

you may only arrive

empty handed.

__

At first,

I had trouble

with freedom.

My eyes

kept returning

to the same nighttime window

my ears

to the same

worn assertions.

This morning,

the wild elk are singing

the sagebrush is turning

the willow are burning

the snow geese are gathered

their flight

down the river.

-—

There’s a town nearby I’ve loved my whole life. It sits by the river, the only choice for a western town, in a valley of sagebrush and piñon and too little rain.

There are high mountains to the west, so beautiful in the morning light, so imperious and purple. …