Whip-poor-will
The young will not be driven sleepless
by the ceaseless threnody of a whip-poor-will.
They never will. Their windows are plied
double, shut for good to condition air.
Their ears, day or dark, stay plugged with buds
that roll one same electronic chime
in rhythmic somnolence. What’s more, the bird
is going, going, gone along with tufted grasses
in oak grove openings where it could nestle
once deep in its own soft brown down,
keening to no one all night long. Or so it seemed,
since no one ever seemed to come.
Nor will the young hear the lake lapping
against the dock or smell its fishy breeze.
They’ll never try to squirm shoulders and hips
to fit into pine needles and raw root stink,
or try to discern dots from dashes
from a forlorn waterfall’s sporadic splashes.
The old never matter, and what they know,
that no one ever really matters, doesn’t matter
either. Somewhere within miraculous tablets
the young forever finger hides a picture
of our movie theatre, a cavernous Alhambra
with stars speckling its vast dome.
For, as was once sung of God, the young
hold the whole world in their hands.
Sticky floors and black air fetid with rancid butter,
must also be there, some mute impulse
waiting to be pulsed. A flashlight shafting here,
then there, suddenly its perfunctory beam
starkly lighting us. Then gone, lashing
across empty seats of an enormous room
we’ll be taking with us as we go.
by the ceaseless threnody of a whip-poor-will.
They never will. Their windows are plied
double, shut for good to condition air.
Their ears, day or dark, stay plugged with buds
that roll one same electronic chime
in rhythmic somnolence. What’s more, the bird
is going, going, gone along with tufted grasses
in oak grove openings where it could nestle
once deep in its own soft brown down,
keening to no one all night long. Or so it seemed,
since no one ever seemed to come.
Nor will the young hear the lake lapping
against the dock or smell its fishy breeze.
They’ll never try to squirm shoulders and hips
to fit into pine needles and raw root stink,
or try to discern dots from dashes
from a forlorn waterfall’s sporadic splashes.
The old never matter, and what they know,
that no one ever really matters, doesn’t matter
either. Somewhere within miraculous tablets
the young forever finger hides a picture
of our movie theatre, a cavernous Alhambra
with stars speckling its vast dome.
For, as was once sung of God, the young
hold the whole world in their hands.
Sticky floors and black air fetid with rancid butter,
must also be there, some mute impulse
waiting to be pulsed. A flashlight shafting here,
then there, suddenly its perfunctory beam
starkly lighting us. Then gone, lashing
across empty seats of an enormous room
we’ll be taking with us as we go.
