WEBVTT

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Some other poems that
have to do with water.

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This one's called "Teal".

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"Like all places, this one
must have a rival beginning.

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Here is the green
winged teal, smallest

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duck, leaper from flooded
willows, more than a flier,

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two shots missed and
lucky hit by the third.

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While you swear at the
oars, the boat's direction,

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small body picked
from the current.

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Winter sunlight
coloring oily feathers.

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The sadness of death.

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Small death perhaps.

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But no less needed than love.

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Listen to the deer hunter.

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Man and father who,
three days sweaty, has

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walked from light to darkness
saying, I'm going to get a doe.

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And he will.

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In the musky twilight,
he is in the doe's body,

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warm, submissive.

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Call it love.

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Call it I don't like this.

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Sorrow.

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Call it some other
place, away, violence.

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In your hot bed, soft
fur, stickiness, meat.

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Here is reason, lies, truth,
in this shifting line of ducks

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above bear cottonwoods.

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The river too far and
not coming toward you.

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Remember your wife before.

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Her mother's girl, clothes
floating across her behind,

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breasts beating like
wings as she ran.

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Doe stiffens on the ground.

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The quick teal fallen.

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Woman lies down.

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Death is all we can give.

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Sorrow, the bright gift
returned for us to carry off."

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