Road Tar Smell

Threads deep past
Through just now—
Life makes sense,

Sense by sense.
As a child,
You loved smells

That burned well.
Wood, gas, tar.
You’re part fire.

After Salter on Frost

First by means of sound,

No, rather, rhythm—

And within the head,

Not out in the air—

Poems first win us when

We’re still small children.

It’s almost tactile,

A kind of bumping

Over the train tracks,

But pleasurable,

Soft whackety-whack,

Keeps us coming back

For more physical

Encounters with lines

Of words we don’t know

As terms with meanings,

As reference points,

As explanations,

And don’t need to know—

Back when we could feel

The separation

Between poetry

And making meaning,

Between language felt

And language used for

Communication.

It was ok then

To have no idea

What the verses meant,

But brain barks backward,

Becoming carved

Away by living,

Steadily losing

The ability

To love the rhythms

That cloak their meanings.

Alright, what this means

May be important.

Parse first, but recall,

However bitter,

Poetry remains

Language carrying

Echoes still playing

Around, foolishly,

Within. To entrance

The old, backwards brain,

To keep it on track,

Maintain attention,

Even grief’s haunted

With ghostly rhythms,

Even protests chant,

Even massive prose

Buries unmarked grace

In wisdom’s garden.

Piled Flake Dunes

Packed light terms,
Dense as stones,
Cliffs worn crushed

Up by quakes,
Down by love
From the grave—

Here’s your edge,
No more room—
Sands. Clouds. Noon.