Robert Bohm

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Excursion
 

I scoop up a few stones, shake my hand
and rattle them like dice
in this wooded place where the stream, already having dwindled
to almost nothing a mile back,
concludes for real.

Over there's a tulip poplar,
one branch reaching, while it grows
thinner inch after inch, toward an elusiveness
neither it nor I
can grasp.

And here? This is me,
bearded, with a pizza stain on my collar.

Beyond the stream,
language, like an antisocial woodsman, folds up its tent
and goes where no tent is needed :
a clearing where what the grass has to say
is massaged by sunlight into silence.

Graying with age, I listen to dice click in absence's casino.
Elsewhere, you lie naked with another man.

 
 

Copyright Robert Bohm 2004. All rights reserved. 
  

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