In the middle

of spring, in the center

of the thicket

a family of finches

 

are making a slog

of dinner, worms

that, pulled out

of the ground

 

become something

like an elegiac

witness to hunger,

the birds’ hunger,

 

the thicket’s starvation,

the yellowed grass’s

thirst. Or not.

I suppose I’m feeling

 

all powerful again,

like last night,

when I watched

a family of raccoons

 

walk through

the shelter of the thicket

and then into the dark

yard with just a clip

 

of moonlight

like a half-secret

on the furry tips

of their ears

 

and said to no-one:

Look at that!

An index of death

is arriving too late

 

for love! I’m a goon.

I cannot reckon

my own life

so I make up lies

 

about another life—

finch life, raccoon life,

my sister’s, mother’s

brother’s life.

 

I can’t believe

I’m allowed to drive

a car but also want

to be held like a baby

 

again. I can’t believe

I’m supposed to be

a father but also

everyone’s son.

 

In the center

of my mind, in the center

of that thicket,

the art of death

 

is hung on the walls.

I walk through it

with a glass of white wine

in one hand

 

and a small plate

of cheese in the other,

staring at the paintings

I’ve made, saying

 

oh I like that

or what the hell is that,

a child could

have painted that.