The Provinces

We took the last of the tobacco,
then rolled
the stones from the fire to
under our feet, and
slept with the dunes behind us.
I woke when a bird flew near.

In the morning we stalked gazelle along the
riverbed, but could
not bring one down. I made a fire
under a rock. There was tea for lunch.
The birds curled around once, then
went looking for something else.

That evening I walked back to my wife. She made
sweet potatoes and cheese and butter and onions
and pancakes. Her brother ate with us and we
stayed up watching the night drinking beer on
the roof. He is unhappy with his new wife, and may
go back to the old one.
The birds are very quiet here.
They hide. They know the children will catch them.

In this town the trucks cough all day. The market is
full of flies. The soldiers look at you and the
foreigners ignore you. You sit
in the heat, drink tea, and smoke.

Three days south there is a valley. I was there
once with my brothers. We were following gazelle.
They turned and led us into that place.
Green trees grew out of
the rocks. Everything
was bloom.
We stayed there two nights
beside the water and ate well.
There were pears and endless game.
The birds came and went chasing
seeds and mosquitoes.
I wrote my name on the rocks beside
another name.

I tell my neighbors about this place but
no one cares. There is a truck which has
brought whiskey or
always something else. If
I can get a contract I will take a
foreigner there to hunt.
They will be pleased with the place.
There is no waterfall, but they will like the
rest. They will be brave
while I catch grasshoppers for them
to fish with. When they go away they
will tell their friends. Then they will come to me also.

I will sleep away from here, near the
trees, under my name.

a bad no good poem

so much
depended on
that red wheelbarrow
the rain & the chickens

but the rain stopped
& the chickens fit into
cooking pots & then
into our bellies
the red barrow broken

& now there are
skeletal chicken remains
a rusty wheelbarrow
& a brown dry
yard &
that's all
there

is

Signs

Six flies on the bathroom wall
Two are mating
One woolly brown moth
does the backstroke in my coffee; its the last cup in the pot.
Two dead squirrels and a bloated headless deer
flank the roads of my morning commute.
All
signs, permutations;
this is not going to be
my best day