Collected Poems

POEMS TO A BROWN CRICKET

For the river at Wheeling, West Virginia, Has only two shores: The one in hell, the other In Bridgeport, Ohio. And nobody would commit suicide, only To find beyond death Bridgeport, Ohio. POEMS TO A BROWN CRICKET i. I woke, Just about daybreak, and fell back In a drowse. A clean leaf from one of the new cedars Has blown in through tin- open window. How long ago a huge shadow of wings pondering and hovering leaned down To comfort my face. I don't care who loved me. Somebody did, so I let myself alone. I will stand watch for you, now. I lay here awake a long time before I looked up And found you sunning yourself asleep In the Secret Life of Jakob Boehme Left open on the desk. 2. Our friends gave us their love And this room to sleep in. Outside now, not a sound. Instead of rousing us out for breakfast, Our friends love us and grant us our loneliness. We shall waken again When the courteous face of the old horse David Appears at our window, To snuffle and cough gently. He, too, believes we may long for 166 One more dream of slow canters across the prairie Before we come home to our strange bodies And rise from the dead. 3As for me, I have been listening, For an hour or so, now, to the scampering ghosts Of Sioux ponies, down the long road Toward South Dakota. They just brought me home, leaning forward, by both hands clinging To the joists of the magnificent dappled feathers Under their wings. 4As for you, I won't press you to tell me Where you have gone. I know. I know how you love to edge down The long trails of canyons. At the bottom, along willow shores, you stand, waiting for twilight, In the silence of deep grass. You are safe there, guarded, for you know how the dark faces Of the cliffs forbid easy plundering Of their beautiful pueblos: White cities concealed delicately in their chasms As the new eggs of the mourning dove In her ground nest, That only the spirit hunters Of the snow can find. 5Brown cricket, you are my friend's name. I will send back my shadow for your sake, to stand guard On the solitude of the mourning dove's young. Here, I will stand by you, shadowless, At the small golden door of your body till you wake In a book that is shining. SHALL WE GATHER AT THE RIVER 167 ...