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Invasives
First, let me tell you about the pigs, torn-up hillsides
They’d left with their rooting, you would see the fresh gashes
Mornings, every morning for a while, you’d climb
From the deep canyon, gullied stream, tannin-blacked
Backwater, the fog was thick, layers of redwood duff,
The bark too, if you chose to speak your voice was swallowed,
There was nothing to say, the trail cut up
One side until you’d clambered clear to manzanita
Arced laurel, live oak, it was still dark, little turned-up
Barrows in the open spaces, then back into
The woods again, and another opening, higher up,
Sun backlighting Mt. St. Helena, undulant
Blue-white fog filling the middle distances, once
At ridgeline, frost on the ground and the pigs themselves,
Blackhair, yellow tusks and eyes, snout, gristle, snuffle,
They were coursing east, your dog quivering at heel,
You will be alone the next time, you will be half
A planet away, a shivved moon will disappear
Into the Mediterranean, half feral yourself
You will make a little scrape in the sand, doze a while,
Then hoist your pack and push east, you will walk
All night, all night, there are fruit groves to your right
Swathed in webbing, openings here and there like the O
Of your father’s mouth, sleeping, what brings him to mind
Here, the galleries of black trunks, the afterglow
Of coastal cities, huge emplacements’ light-forests
Cresting the Lebanon ridge, the path you follow
Inland, towards the Galil, your own light extinguished,
In the farmyards the dogs are straining at their chains
At you this time, you skirt sodium-vapor light-pools past
The gates, now there is no light at all, now you pick your way
Feeling for smooth ground by the soles of your feet,
Now like ragged black clouds coursing across your moon-face
Wild pigs rise from the stubble, cross your path, disappear:
Tell me, who are you, and what are you doing here? |
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