The Old Man Next Door Died

The Old Man Next Door Died

The old man next door died,
the one with the yard neat as a calendar.

Then his son moved in,
the one the neighbors don’t like.

Then a car hit a deer and it died by the road
and rotted to bones on his uncut grass.

Weeks gone by now
and he hasn’t gathered the bones,

the ones with skin loose on the frame
and the frame loose on the ground.

Takes a long time,
a long time.

Cargo Cult

Cargo Cult

Then one day the cargo comes,
after the weeds have eaten the runway
and the man who waves torches at its end

has gone home without food,
and the plane made of sticks has collapsed,
and the indifferent jungle has grown

like the sea to the world's edge:
something lands and takes off.
Not during your sly devotions,

but in darkness while you sleep,
the part of you tracking arrivals
hears an engine through the trees

and reaches to touch one you love,
slipping your hand over her skin
lightly and smoothly as a bird in the air.

12-16-14