The Edge of Wild (v.2.1)

The edge of wild, where
Hickory and goldenrod nod
Cobwebbed September awake—
Afternoon heat from the asphalt,
And the sweetly stinking carcass
Picked over by the black-headed
Buzzards until, sated and flown,
Timid turkey vultures approach,
Sadly hopping forth with hope.

You’ve seen this broken

Scene, the forty six year

Old man, castaway in the wreck

Of self-loathing bones—

Oh, wild! No pity, too broken

To even wash his own socks,

Hunting asparagus along the fence

Rows sprung forth from bird droppings.

Succor! Wild child! Still,

We dream of mothers

From 1950s sitcoms, smelling

Chocolate chip cookies

As we forage for fiddleheads,

Chanterelles, ramps along the wooded

Creek bottom. Unrequited comfort.

The apron strings so starkly

Black and white, and

The kitchen set straight every night.

Out on the river, the water

Gin-clear, the man looks

Over the side and sees

Not only the stony bottom but, just

Above, catfish, blue-gray shadows,

Scores upon scores, uncatchable as

Sleeping dreamers, unconscious

And floating one inch above the bed—

Or three feet below, it doesn’t

Matter. It’s a very deep sleep.

Oh, heartbroken wild,

Wracked with nodding shame!

Grief! Suffering! The man fixed

Frozen where the water is so clear,

He could reach a hand and

Pluck a fish brightly as a guitar string—

One lonely, tentative note, filling the

Autumn air with plaintive song.