Reading Hart Crane’s North Labrador in Hot Weather
Because the neighbor’s dog
lives in the sort of floating
present—now and now
and now—I have believed
the word eternity means,
his bark is one note
scruffed on the wood fence
over and over
like a series of hard kicks.
Three p.m.’s knees tremble
with the work of holding up
a drained sky.
The crisp lawn suffers
a new attack of fire ants.
I will an illusion of cold,
swallow iced tea, drowse
in my chair, wake and read
a few more poems. Wind
throws nets of snow
over a sea cliff.
Seals blink at the white shore
as if the sea gave up
its dead to resurrection—
Seal-bark, splash, clatter of shingle:
they hitch themselves up
in cold and lean toward the world.
Copyright 2007 by the Tipton Poetry Journal.
All rights remain the exclusive property of the individual poet and may not be used without their permission.