pumpkins on the stairs candle hearts doorway to we are all
inside our houses with care for children where we all
know the bogeyman is alone
butterflies turn black at midnight in chrysalis they drink
up the darkness and then the bats come out and eat them
dry ice summons up the mist from the cold and it rains thunder
and lightning hour after hour of relentless press water
miniature goblins run hectic to and fro across the wet lawns
grabbing in tiny little golden paws a hershey bar
Satan lord of the porch now pitch red glowing in the opaque
night sadistically distant no crying for any one in particular
just filled with a huge hot hole
curious buy no one in particular watch the water go between the
cars don't cross the street without a monitor walk don't run
multiple reflector treaty by the man accelerates the whole process
and everyone wins winds up home with a bag of goodies and thanks
to the president and the future of economics and thank you God for
not biting me
There is a heart-stopping thrill
to see a glitter among the sand
and gravel in your pan
or from that likely-looking rock
youíve just struck in California
of 1849, Alaska some decades later
or perhaps somewhere on earth
Or so Iím told.
I donít much scramble up mountains
or wander deserts and tundra.
My taste runs more to Birkenstocks
than hiking boots.
But I have
that same heart-stopping thrill
at my window as gold collects
in my back yard at a tube
of thistle seed.
The analyst, at eighty, sits in his living room
having said goodbye to his last analysand,
then counts the books in his bookcase, and begins a summing up.
The value of his undertaken life seems immeasurable.
A few gifts remain in his office;
many memories linger, slipping like moonlight
through the shadowy corridors of his soul.
Does he have one? This particular analyst wonders about that;
he has been true to the saga of the libido,
and suddenly it is as though he has awakened
from a startling dream filled with "aha's."
The doctrine seems to have disappeared;
he wonders where it is, and why it has gone,
and for one terrified moment he thinks
he may have wasted his life. The thought is so distressing
he counts the ferns on the table by his left hand,
scours the wood carving to his right with an abject gaze,
and swallows panic.
The October night buzzed with excitement,
lighted by fireflies and anticipation
of endless bonfires.
Mother and I were on one side
of the cornfield, Dad on the other
as we took burning brands
to set alight dried stalks
that Dad had harrowed
into long rows--flames roaring
from both ends to meet in the middle,
and extinguish themselves there.
With heat-caressed face and legs I walked,
spellbound by the hiss of fire
snaking along each row,
turning the moon red--
dimming stars and fireflies.
Smoke drifted, pungent, hot,
until the field,
under its nourishing
blanket of ashes
was left to rest.
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