August 17, 2011

William Neumire

BRANCHES

My wife wants a magnolia tree,
but only in full bloom
when pink teacups
drip from its discursive branches.
Hegel says this hive of petals
only exists because I’m here
in front of the neighbor’s yard
looking at it. But also,
that I only exist because my neighbor’s
looking at me uncomfortably
as he patrols his lawnmower rows,
and he’s only here
because of his wife who’s never,
as far as I know, won an award
or been called for an interview.
Still, she watches over him
as he slips into his car
for his evening shift. Because
she sees him go, and because
she worries what his night
will do to him, he gets to be
a man under an umbrella
of flowers.

from Rattle #34, Winter 2010

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October 22, 2010

Bill Neumire

A CAR IN THE FIELD

The season is blank; bearded face
scraped to flesh. Black vines
and branches trickle up. The car
is carapaced in ice, abandoned
at summer’s end in this cornfield
so the cops won’t find it incriminating,
illegal, expired. Someone tried
to start it last month in the dark, cut
the right wires and spliced them together,
waited for a spark of ignition, a joyride
with the girl who only goes
with boys who drive Camaros.

When the weather drops below zero
I recall the law of impermanence
that governs our universe and keeps me
insistent: someday this will be
different: ice will be water and the car will tear
up the field in a storm of mud, lightning
under the hood. The boy will get the girl,
trees will remember their leaves
and I will believe that no
death lasts forever.

from Rattle #24, Winter 2004

__________

Bill Neumire: “I write, as Merwin has said, to get one moment right.”

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