Breaking every law except the one
for Go, rolling its porpoise way, the rocket
staggers on its course; its feelers lock
a stranglehold ahead; and-rocking-finders
whispering “Target, Target,” back and forth,
relocating all its meaning in the dark,
it freezes on the final stage. I know
that lift and pour, the flick out of the sky
and then the power. Power is not enough.
Bough touching bough, touching … till the shore,
a lake, an undecided river, and a lake again
saddling the divide: a world that won’t be wise
and let alone, but instead is found outside
by little channels, linked by chance, not stern;
and then when once we’re sure we hear a guide
it fades away toward the opposite end of the road
from home; a world that goes wrong in order to have revenge.
Our lives are an amnesty given us.
There is a place behind our hill so real
it makes me turn my head, no matter. There
in the last thicket lies the cornered cat
saved by its claws, now ready to spend
all there is left of the wilderness, embracing
its blood. And that is the way that I will spit
life, at the end of any trail where I smell any hunter,
because I think our story should not end
or go on in the dark with nobody listening.