for Steven
Of shagbark hickory, or pignut
mockernut, bitternut, and all
the other hard choices
that bring us beauty leaving
and the kind of cherry desk
to make you sigh
and forget the jealous
conspiracy of poets
with their selfish little whisperings
of lead and ink.
And know this: the large soul
is yearning at the drawer locks
of a private life
the one that keeps the sternum true
the one that shuts the sex away
in secret longing
the one like a phylactery
sliding open from the skull
above the eyes
a dreamy Dali drawer
to keep the night mouse in
some aromatic magic resin
rubbed against the bone
like the salt sea of desire
melted in the flesh.
And he plants a tree
for every tree he takes.
And so his table is the father
of an oak.
And so his golden cabinet
is mother to a river shade
where lovers sleep
a hundred years away
lost in the doweling of a distant afternoon.
And he and I
each toiling in his disappearing craft
lament a box and paper age
where I’d emblazon Dante’s warning words
above the depot door
then walk the other way
out into the genius of trees.
Originally Published in Cider Press Review, Volume 2.
