The Wild Muse

wildness, wonder, and the spirit of place

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New Poem II – To Call Up

To Call Up

Struggling, you see only the struggle,
not the maze outlined in burnt sienna
as a wand writes the light upon the field
and the trees dip down to gently kiss
the spring. In your running, amazed
by the power of your creations, you have forgotten
how breath also comes to nightmares
and the bruise licks the tongue of the snake.
In childhood, did the barn burn itself
to the ash—or was it you, holding that godly
match to the surrounding air.
The horses, lonely in their cells,
set loose by your mercy.
The space between understanding
and regret has been too wide
to bridge with words.
I throw them, but they hang down
in the waters of recollection
as if to kiss, as those trees,
some other source.

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New Poem – The Real Last

The Real Last

This is the last

And when you say the last

The words are meant to be sloppy

The trough of vowels will fill with your protests

A golden calf with fall into the river

Where your tears may also follow

If there are some to give


I am at a loss for the last

I have crayoned the walls

The dog’s head

With the outline of one more

There must be


You’ll see the last

Swinging by its noose

You’ll see the last

Discarded panties in an arcade

Behind alleyways

In the oceanic garble

Of dishwashers and garbage disposals

Where the last waits, smirking


I don’t speak the truth of the last

To polite folk – their ramrod

Dalliance with moderation

Unglues the envelope

They kiss and swim in what is

Not seeing the last

Make a big exit

That may arrive at any time


You wonder why the last

Has us hounded

Treed, chewing my nails

To the nub – not giving the damn

Needed to bathe

It is the last

Within the clutch

Of what I will never get