Two Contemporary Poets
I scoop up a few stones, shake my hand
and rattle them like dice
in this wooded place where the stream, already having dwindled
to almost nothing a mile back,
concludes for real.
Over there's a tulip poplar,
one branch reaching, while it grows
thinner inch after inch, toward an elusiveness
neither it nor I
And here? This is me,
bearded, with a pizza stain on my collar.
Beyond the stream,
language, like an antisocial woodsman, folds up its tent
and goes where no tent is needed :
a clearing where what the grass has to say
is massaged by sunlight into silence.
Graying with age, I listen to dice click in absence's casino.
Elsewhere, you lie naked with another man.