- Necropastorals
1
Disruption of the warblers' routes Parched white hairOf brome and grama
Conifers retreating upslope DominionOf the dry white oak
The woods propose a blind white room then burn
2
A white accessible
Only through green A black Contracted
As a plague
Of fern fronds chokes This gully
Not yet boneNo longer crisp
Root threads inching down the colorspace
From succulent To dread [End Page 131]
3
When no human person's hereThe pine woods brim with soundRare in the galaxy
It matters
Crabgrass silts a drainage ditchWith pointless greenMy word for sacred is undisturbed
4
Beneath the earth's skin lies A face Black oak knuckles
Clench it Citizens have sieved Down through it
To the soil Dead seeds swollen black laxing
Where the blind-eyed beetles Harvest rot for keep
5
The white pine's Awl might strike and wake The blinded face
Long sentences of cadmium and acids Scribbled on the wetlands
A profanity vital in the otter's mouth Who sine-waves over ice fields with his death
Already messaged in his spine Wedged between his ribs a gift
(The gift a flaw the flaw a wound) From which his blood's black liquor flows
A second body running out Across the smoking snow [End Page 132]
6
Look inside the box to think outside the box
Boxes made for holding goods or corpsesCorpsewood boxes made from clearcuts
Nothing's clear in a denuded landscapeBut nobody's looking as shadows clock over footpaths
On a football afternoon with the lightGoing out of the skyEarlier and earlier
And the bluescreened facesOf the fiercest predators the earth has ever seenPretend to a devastating mildness
There's such a thing in the world nowAs "nature deficit disorder"Which means it may be too late
As names make boxes to hold the memories of thingsThat have almost finished vanishing
7
If my need were less dire I'd be assailedBy less silence Here among the beardtongueAnd strawberry clover Otters cottontails hawks jays loves
Why have you savaged your facesAgainst me (Rapacious Pilgrims ghostingOver grass I hear you passingAnd the skins of the dead you wore) If I were less humanYou could be more so I made a botchBut didn't blare it which ought
To count And who am I now What wasteHave I assembled and is it part of meThis rat's long tail [End Page 133]
8
The asshole trees shit seedsWhich fuck the darkness underground
Sucking till the wet threads come
Death in its other aspectThe series' prequel
Waste light vomited in pools
To stink and bleedInto delicate fringes
9
When the woods stand empty there will be no woodsAnd incarnation's a tensioned wireWill warp and straighten and its painWill never end [End Page 134]
Jonathan Weinert is the author, most recently, of Thirteen Small Apostrophes (2013) and In the Mode of Disappearance (2008), winner of the Nightboat Poetry Prize. He is co-editor, with Kevin Prufer, of Until Everything Is Continuous Again: American Poets on the Recent Work of W. S. Merwin (2014). He lives in Massachusetts.