I Must Have Left It in My Ivory
When I ask the right questions
through a pedant fog
seven-eighths moons with their raffish slivers
appropriate what may or may not slither on its belly
into shallow, septic waters, what may not settle
over bootprints, hoofprints, and tire tracks, and
leach through the soil, possess night vision or an
of sticks and pebbles. The swamp changes slowly.
I read an interview with a porcupine
transliterated beautifully in The Paris Review.
The spirit of the times, it says, may wander out
onto Thirty-ninth Avenue where it is unambiguously
by many cars and trucks in succession.
In soft water how are we to remember
always the spirit serves man, not man the spirit?