By Michael Rogner
I find a book stitched
by tomorrow’s clouds
gently adrift. Mimeographed poppies
lift their faces so I can fly
to their yam blossoms for stained
pollen gauchos. Tomorrow
is when I begin. Tomorrow I hone
shovel blades on a stone
from a field where miquelets
harassed the French. Tomorrow
the clock will reset. Fallen leaves
will cover our shy maple. The birds will sing
songs they’ve been testing
in their moist redwood apartments.
Worms will wriggle their wet lives
across pavement seeking dark safety.
Today we found a dead fox sparrow
behind the barbeque. Tomorrow will be
gluttony and survival. Tomorrow
will be ablation and artfully damaged genes
resembling all the faces the Warhol clones
have ripped off. Tomorrow two smiling nurses
will walk me to the bell
and my wife will press the red button
while we bathe in rusted vibrations.
Tomorrow is the day when everything
begins. I will hold my wife’s hand.
We won’t discuss all the things
we could have done. Tomorrow
when the red moon rises
coyotes will howl and yelp. Bats
will dance their joyful curtsies.
We will remove our shoes to step lightly
through the wet grass. A tree fit
for a picnic awaits. I will lift the book
from its wrappings and turn to chapter one.