Robert S. King Robert S. King has poems published or forthcoming in hundreds of magazines, including The Kenyon Review, Southern Poetry Review, ELF: Eclectic Literary Forum, Midwest Quarterly, and the California Quarterly. He is the current director of FutureCycle Poetry, http://www.futurecycle.org The Meaning of Dogs The trail of a young dog is old, comes back to me as my son rolling in wagging stalks of grass and tail, a trick new as the judgeless tongue wetting him with laughter. I want to grow only from remembered grass, want to part its secrets with gentle wind, want my son to sing without my howl of history. I do not want this leash that jerks me back in line, makes me hold my tongue on pet words I should not choke on. Prophets Climbing to Machu Picchu a seance blows from lower nights and we glance back to flickering jewels to see our eyes lying like old stones we lift them from our brother's grave hurl them ahead to crown a silent mountain hear them landing in a better time to wear them but they never settle they remember us falling us climbing the path with stones in our pockets brother brother step aside throw faster our eyes are rolling back to us Condensation The grave dirties all, rich and poor in the same pocket, the earth getting them mixed up. In socialist wealth they break new ground as flowers, the royal and ragged hair woven in a common web of dew, their silver souls shining together through. Footloose even when we sleep our feet keep walking tracking the nearest stars and campfires that dreams wear for shoes still flame and blister keep going back to the fire that raised them older and older regret and each day our feet are later coming back Miniverse, my Universe An overworked metaphor, I drive home to Unity, where only naps travel far, where maps are used to swat the local flies. Too heavy for my shock absorbers, I steer obliquely now, veer and smear thinly along a road dead at both ends. Still, the small stem of my mind snaps, flies off on a wild loose chase, and still my deep-space probe does not penetrate the flickers of brighter stars. I burn out among the pin pricks of light, only remember the vision of your touch, not the common fuel of light years that stretched your fingers toward mine like comets curving or toll roads paving their own way. And how like roads they tangle and turn away, get lost in their smaller selves.` |