Aching in his Skin
Through a hole in the cloud, one dim star.
The prodigal son comes footsore to the ridgetop,
Stares down at the tents of home. A scrape
Of sandals behind him. He's not ready, this soon,
To speak, but he manages: "I'm home, Dad."
The old man hawks and spits. Looks him over,
And finally says, "what, was you gone?"
The sifting, braiding sea.
Our supposedly prim forebears at least
Made cars that you could neck in. What is it with
These bucket seats, divided by an elbow-high
Island for the gearshift? Don't people
Make out any more? They might have been designed
By Queen Victoria.
Listen to the thump
Of the tree's green heart.
Up to suckle the sun;
Down to suck the water.
Trembly in the wind,
Aching in his skin,