I The blond girl with a polka heart: one foot, then another, then aerial in a twisting jump, chin upward with a scream of such splendor I go back to my cabin, and start a fire. II Art & life drunk & sober empty & full guilt & grace cabin & home north & south struggle & peace after which we catch a glimpse of stars, the white glistening pelt of the Milky Way, hear the startled bear crashing through the delta swamp below me. In these troubled times I go inside and start a fire. III I am the bird that hears the worm, or, my cousin said, the pulse of a wound that probes to the opposite side. I have abandoned alcohol, cocaine, the news, and outdoor prayer as support systems. How can you make a case for yourself before an ocean of trees, or standing waist-deep in the river? Or sitting on the logjam with a pistol? I reject oneness with bears. She has two cubs and thinks she owns the swamp I thought I bought. I shoot once in the air to tell her it's my turn at the logjam for an hour's thought about nothing. Perhaps that is oneness with bears. I've decided to make up my mind about nothing, to assume the water mask, to finish my life disguised as a creek, an eddy, joining at night the full, sweet flow, to absorb the sky, to swallow the heat and cold, the moon and the stars, to swallow myself in ceaseless flow. |