on the path that crowns
the mountain isn’t tended
by any flies.
Has Beelzebub called
them all to worship
at his golden toilet in
West Palm Beach?
I step carefully around it,
al rededor, “around”
a word I just learned
in my Spanish class.
Two women walking
swiftly pass me by
on the narrow trail.
They do not speak or
even seem to see me.
… poor Karen was in
the kitchen half the day
cooking for book club…
As warm as it now is,
I’ve yet to see any snakes.
Maybe they’re as wise
as Jesus said or perhaps
as peaceful as doves.
Although I hear them cry.
And crows rattling
their beaks like castanets,
the staccato tapping
of acorn woodpeckers
like a two-finger typist
on an ancient Olivetti.
Down in the shadowed
canyon another couple
of hikers passes me by.
One says to the other:
“…she wants Stephen
cut out of every family
photo, can you believe it?
The other one says
Yes, I can because
he…well, you know
we all could see it
coming but still…wow”
A phrase I read floats up
from the silt that settles
in the bottom of the
pond that is my mind:
“I have slain them by
the words of my mouth:
and your judgments are
as the light that goes forth.”
