"Belly full of grain, sail down this way,
Saintly grey bell of pigeon." – Francis Ponge, from "The Pigeon"









Spring Goose



And there are a hundred ways to interpret the late spring goose,
as it rides its little airways along to a landing
on a pond that is skirted by last night's blizzard snow
seven to ten inches deep
it is the palpable small airplane
but today all is melting
little beards of white along every tree and the tufts of marsh reeds
matted down
like beige blankets, holding the patterns of last night's city deer
the geese are straight lines
drawings on a board
sincere
so succinct really in the way that they hold their distance
from one another
just the two of them and know each other but speak in long cries
when you watch another along the bay
it has been dipping its beak
and this one has caught a long reed across its back
and when it rises back up out of the cool water it is empty
I hear two others from the other side of the pond
the oaks that surround have been dead for ages
long limbs that reach out
and like the last clutch of the palm might have asked
that only one for its sake one more time
the goose scoots across the fragile glass like water
and sound the strange prayer