The Old Mule

I walked two blocks from
the Hotel Marmot, reclined
in a half-quiet park with the
rustle of leaves and paper.
God damn life follows me
from one side of the ocean
all the way across. And I stick
here against the spinning earth,
pinned like a moth to cork,
inhaling fumes of my repose:
all the while there goes April,
white of May, raining June.
And where is August? Where
is peace? The quiet stroll
I came for, the bakery, the river
after wine and the trees. So what
of the women—they amble by
in dream. Take them away
while I chase along the next few
months of my life and pretend
the morning never comes.

Sitka, 1927

Oil lighted spruce cabin,
an early noise, the morning ritual
of fishermen putting on seal skin
hats – tremendous color through
panes, and wind like ghost through
glass. Coals warm, not hot, no tea.
Only a lifetime of arctic plain, wet
heavy boots and leather mittens,
the private routine of out-door,
one foot, another foot down
mud snow graveled road. Men
from Thorne Bay or Angoon.
Men set like moose, hulking shapes
whose frames are lost in bundles
and bundles. Out from the road
the canopy thins to sea, land becomes
ice gripped, forever flat and finally wet
with a deep salt ocean that holds
them every bright hour of the day.