Hello, here is my poem
Somewhere ravens, or are they crows, say, “Ha ha,”
not the British ditch with fence, famous
to Scrabblers, but a small horn’s notes, terse
and hoarse. A sheep’s bleat, a handsaw,
the finches’ high-pitched chitter
in the blighted apple tree, its stalled
tart fruit, red-bottomed, inch-wide, already timed
out: it all makes a music, animal,
vegetal, human. One white morning glory
solos in the swath of optimist
dandelions—nothing haunts
or hunts them, their dazzle-yellow boasts:
Hello, hello, we’re hiding’s counterpoise.
They border the moles’
two beige mounds and a hole.
Wild hemlock’s parsley-look
also emblems the book of “seem,”
while the ground-dwelling flower
with arrowhead leaves—no memorial
to the native tribes, Wiyots here
or Ishi’s people further south—lures a bee,
a troth if not a promise:
the flower, ale gold and blowsy,
has drunk beauty’s beer.
Our only fence is the raven’s ha and ha:
air’s vowels, an LOL, or
bravado’s call?
It’s what Yahweh boasts
his battle horses say
in the Englished book of Job.
The ravens circle and call.
Even earth can seesaw
when the fault slides right.
It’s raven heaven here.
