1630 Nature poems

The ants came to investigate the dead bull snake, nibbled at the viscera and hurried off with full mouths waving wild antenae. Moths alighted, beetles swarmed, flies buzzed in the stomach. Three crows tugged and tore and flew off to their oak tree with the skin. In every house men, women and children were chewing beef. Who was it said “The wonder of the world is its comprehensibility”?

A clementine Of inclement climate Grows tart. A crocus Too stoic to open, Won’t. Like an oyster That cloisters a spoil of pearls, Untouched— The heart that’s had Enough Stays shut.

When the rain hits the snake in the head, he closes his eyes and wishes he were asleep in a tire on the side of the road, so young boys could roll him over, forever.

It is their way to find the surface when they die. Fish feed on fish and drop those beautiful bones to swim. I see them stretch the water to their need as I domesticate the separate air to be my breath. These fish die easily. I find my surface in the way they feed. Their gathering hunger is a flash like death. No agony as if my mind had eaten death.

The field blank in snow. But I mean this page. Now print mars the surface to make surface Seen. Sheen only error brings. Perfect rage So the sun rises. Rage is your slow practice That makes of every day another day In whose gathering promise the shy sparrows Shiver instead of sing. I want to go away. See these footsteps? These black shapes in the snow? If there is a word for them, it’s no word I know.Pursuit?, no.Proof?, no. Don’t call it fear. Could I cross this white sheet if I were coward, Edge to edge, margin to margin, never Referring to anything outside itself?— Stop that. Stop pointing to the photo on the shelf.

Octopus floating in earth’s ink-ore core whose arms extend up here as trees may your branches squirt their black across my pages please

There it was, word for word, The poem that took the place of a mountain. He breathed its oxygen, Even when the book lay turned in the dust of his table. It reminded him how he had needed A place to go to in his own direction, How he had recomposed the pines, Shifted the rocks and picked his way among clouds, For the outlook that would be right, Where he would be complete in an unexplained completion: The exact rock where his inexactnesses Would discover, at last, the view toward which they had edged, Where he could lie and, gazing down at the sea, Recognize his unique and solitary home.

How long and thin she seems today a field of mustard smiling up at the sun it draws her eyebrows together in a little pain I don’t think I ever saw calligraphy of geese like this overseas oaks and pines pretending to be asleep not quite dark yet as it is at home poor people, midnight

In a minute among the river reeds I will debut my composition a urine-stained quilt is the flag of early summer rain and when I open my mouth not even a bird singing contains all my ideas for rising and falling all day my phone vibrates its tiny mouth in the mountain’s shadow

I have written a couple of poems about trees poems about trees and snakes and lakes and birds poems about nature and life in New England I write crappy poems and eat babies if you like poems about trees you’re in for a treat when I get nervous I get hyper and bump into people I read to them what MapQuest gave me round during then in the mom seeker panties to help me narrow down the slut thing word jobs