Two poems I left recently on the Morning Porch.
In response to this:
Implacable whites, unappeasable skies:
the saturate shell of our wandering eyes.
And in response to this:
Mt Hood, DST
Cold and dawn-dark
(they’ve been messing with the clock again
who knows what time it is?)
The ridge disappears into cloud,
cloud into mountain, mountain into sky:
here at the raw crude
edge of the world
we need no pretending.
A fastness? No, a slowness.
Turn the wheel and the sunline,
taut and glimmering,
pivots on Hood’s shoulder
as slow as an impalement stake,
and the mountain,
a scabied ragged hungry eagle,
turns its tufted head.