northfield july 12

at some point, the suitcase,
the old car packed blind,
the headlong tumble out of the tree
before the updraft and the sky.

after this, all glory, all beauty,
boredom of days and the heart's unease,
the long ballad written in blood.

the nest remains on the branch,
the old house on the same street.
you think you know that place,
but you can not discover it
in ten thousand things.

dkz

lake orion july 5

What is up with the purple martins?
One stands before their tall house and dances a funky circuit:
tail twitch, head left, wing shrug, repeat.
While his neighbors begin their raucous commute,
three silent geese converge on the dock.
The weightless sparrows blown aloft
chatter and panic in the still-black oak.
Waves lap the spreading warmth;
a distant boat whines low across the water.
The small island you swam to with your brothers is sinking:
the westernmost tree uprooted in the weekend storm
hangs tilted, a feast below its swinging roots,
a dogeared page in the lake's long history.
The soft air exhales its soft breath.
Queenly light advances on the water's face, on the trees,
edgeless grey sharpens to yellow-green, ice-blue,
promising purple and scarlet,
a guarantee of night.

dkz

the world is, the world is

48 hours ago, entering the Staatsoper for the final Katja.
36 hours ago, sleepy in a cab following the canal south toward the airport.
24 hours ago, somewhere over the icebergs, in between the Heathrow layover and the long drive out of Chicago.
12 hours ago, laughter and embraces in MtMn's childhood home.
Just now, in the truck driving to Starbucks in search of caffeine and Internet.

I parked among the other shoppers, who were laden with beer and hot dogs and chips and everything for the fireworks display tonight. People glanced up at the heavy skies, hoping the storms would pass quickly. I put the truck in park and the radio was saying,

"No his mind is not for rent
To any god or government
Always hopeful, discontent,
He knows the changes aren't permanent"

But change is.

dkz