Art

—for Fleda It seems so different   art that moves me now From the sort of art I longed for long ago Soaring   Vatic   Agon I waited yesterday on the unsure shoulder Of a drenched back road    From my car I could behold Our highway agent Gordon Fill a rut with a spade  climb up on his grader And smooth things smooth as the top of a kitchen table There were frost heaves by the score And culverts clotted shut by April floods So it was brilliant    what Gordon did with mud On Wallace Hill      Pure mire Out there   The road goes narrow as a needle On which   you might wonder   could dance how many angels I don't care   I didn't No earthly need to summon spirits   daemons No sign of them at all    Nor would I dream one I might have once but wouldn't Nor gyre nor golem    Nor great Leviathan Nor djinn     Nor fiend    Nor signifying wind Nor Elementargeist That lingering in that lane might make me conjure I had to get somewhere and fetch my daughter To bring her home     Sweet Christ She might be standing in that mix of sleet And ugly rain    which called for Gordon's art I'm trying to be a grownup Better late than never    I suppose Or am I only jaded      I don't know It was as though I'd shown up Just to see him wield his spade and blade out there It kept me from surmising some furor divinis Why should I bother Now that I moved on    thanks be to Gordon Who signaled with his thumb for me to pass him He pulled the grader over Yes give me something useful here I said Impromptu        In my car it sounded odd To say it now sounds different I hope that Gordon watched me yesterday As I signaled back    I'd never have made my way Without a skillful agent I hope he saw me wave