Quick and Hard

A toast to all my absent enemies:
I won’t complain, or waver, or pretend
I’m thinking every one of you my friend.
I do know better. All of you can freeze:
The icebox of my heart has cavities
Quite big enough for all of you. We bend,
We shake, we hope for something, in the end,
That makes us happy once again, but please!

Still, you were targeting my bones, my heart,
My standing, so I came out at the bell
To face you, leaving my abandoned shell
Behind me, all my blind love and my art.
I knew what was required here, from the start:
You’ve made me quick and hard, which serves me well.

Ardour for Nighttime

Try harder. So far you’ve done nothing right:
You failed at almost everything you tried.
When people asked what happened here, you lied
And cringed when dark things moved into the light.
Undoubtedly you know you’re not as bright
As some of those old duffers, mostly fried,
Who hang around where their hopes, having died,
Are spread across the fields, the usual blight.

The old guys tell you secrets, which you knew,
Make snide remarks about your desperate ardour
For nighttime and the contents of the larder.
They squint sincerely and make fun of you
And your too-easy life. But that’s your cue:
So far you haven’t done enough. Try harder.

Paintings of Eau Claire

I’m not inspired by paintings of Eau Claire,
Although it’s true Wisconsin interests me:
The lakes, the quick march to an inland sea,
The old progressive spirit in the air,
And love — like all love — beautiful and fair
As snow outside my window, drifting free
And soft, dispersing light, its subtlety
My downfall, almost more than I can bear.

Menomonie in winter claims my heart,
And paintings of Eau Claire miss what is best
In my Wisconsin. West, perhaps midwest,
Somewhere something is pulling me apart,
And holding me together. All my art
Pounds deeply and resounds here in my chest.

The Birthdays of the Dead

We celebrate the birthdays of the dead,
Remember cake and ice cream, and the gifts
We offered in the years before those rifts
That separated us. The years ahead
Are empty. We remember what we said,
Telling ourselves sweet lies. The spirit lifts,
We take to telling sad stories in shifts —
My turn, come midnight, fills my heart with dread.

I don't want to recall the lives, the deaths,
The time we’ve spent, together and alone,
Pretending time always stands still. We’re prone,
In this harsh mood, to lean on shibboleths
And maunder on about our friends’ last breaths,
But it’s a birthday! Dance on a gravestone.